Hidden Motive
by Bumblie Bee
Summary: John gets a call from Mycroft informing him that Sherlock had become the pedestrian victim in a car accident. He rushes to the hospital to be at his friends side, only to fine out things are slightly more sinister than they first appeared.
1. Watching From Afar

**Chapter 1: **

**Watching From Afar **

Mycroft sat in his office, paper work spread across the desk as he puzzled over the many documents from different governments. The file that he was working on at the moment was a tiresome yet important file to do with a treaty that was sure to bring about some sort of world peace. However he could not get it right. He knew Sherlock would probably solve the problems quicker but it was top secret and he didn't want to give in to asking his little brother for help. Anyway, there would be no point as he knew Sherlock would bluntly refuse.

Mycroft gave up with a sigh and let his eyes travel to the expensive CCTV monitor that sat among the complicated papers. The screen showed his younger brother, the world's only consulting detective, as he waited outside a glass building. The cars whizzed along the road as the younger man stood, leaning against the wall. He looked perfectly calm, as though he was waiting for a friend but Mycroft knew that his younger brother was agitated, waiting for something to happen, something important and obviously something to do with one of his blasted cases. They were such a waste of Sherlock's intelligence but the more anyone tried to tell the boy what to do the more he would rebel.

Mycroft also knew that he needed to get back to his work so drew his eyes away from the screen and back to the irksome papers cluttering the desk. The work was stupid and tiresome and it was at times like this that Mycroft regretted taking the "minor position in the British government". He worked for several more hours, taking occasional sneaking peaks at his brother, before his eyelids began to droop. He slipped his hands under his reading glasses in order to rub his tired eyes, pulling them away just in time to see a man in a suit slinking from the building. The man took a short glance over his shoulder and then broke into a frightened sprint as Sherlock pushed himself away from the wall and took off after the suited man. The man charged down the path, pushing unexpecting members of the public aside in his bid for freedom. Sherlock ran after him, earning himself, what Mycroft assumed were angry yells as the monitor had no sound, from the already rattled pedestrians.

The chase continued, down main-roads and backstreets, as Mycroft's cameras struggled to keep up with the charging men. The elder Holmes bother could see Sherlock was winning the race, the gap between the two men shrinking with every turn. Soon it would be over, the criminal caught, and Sherlock one again victorious over the police and the criminals alike. The suited man could tell this too, his run becoming panicked and his glances behind more frequent. He was obviously stupid or desperate to not be caught as at the next turn he ran straight into the road, Sherlock hot on his heals with his woollen coat flapping behind him. The man darted between two cars, missing them by a hair's width. Sherlock ran after him, concentration purely on the suited man, not noticing the speeding car until it hit. What happened was too quick even Mycroft's sharp eyes but the next thing he knew was that his little brother was lying in a road, coat spread dramatically over the black tarmac, his limbs awkwardly bent and dribbles of blood trickling down his forehead.

Mycroft gasped, a hand flying up to his head and his heart pounding in his chest. This was the closest he had ever come to panicking, his normally calm exterior shattered as he jumped up from the desk, his chair clattering to the floor behind him in his haste. He ran to the door, flung it open and sprinted down the hall towards his Anthea's office. He burst into the room, startling the unexpected lady. She shrieked slightly in fright, dropping her blackberry onto the desk with a clatter. Her brow furrowed slightly at the sight of her normally controlled boss panting and panicked in the doorway.

"Mycroft, are you okay?" she asked, the concern evident in her voice as she absentmindedly stored her precious blackberry back in her pocket.

"Sherlock's been knocked down!" he panted, eyes filled with worry for his little brother. Anthea nodded calmly as she got to her feet before grasping Mycroft's clammy hand and leading him back to his office. She noticed how his hand shook as she held it, showing the feelings that he always hid so deeply from everyone. The corridors were deserted and the sound of their footsteps echoed on the marble floor until they entered the carpeted office. Anthea led her boss back to his desk, picked up the fallen chair and left the room to call the people in charge of watching Sherlock for an update.

Mycroft sat back down in his large leather chair as he tried to calm his breathing and reassure himself that his brother would be fine but he could not rid himself of the constant nagging fears that swirled in his mind. His eyes fixed themselves back on the screen in front of him, now showing a small crowd that had gathered around the motionless form of the younger Holmes brother. Mycroft forced himself to calm and surveyed the scene, trying to deduce the situation of the accident. On closer inspection the elder Holmes brother could see a large shattered bull's-eye on the windscreen of the large green car that had hit the detective. This was not good; a bull's-eye meant that his brother's head must have hit the windscreen at a considerable force, a force large enough to usually cause brain problems. The driver of the car had gotten out and was kneeling on the road pushing Sherlock's charcoal curls away from a large cut on his forehead. The curls were sticky with the blood that left red rivers over the younger man's pale skin and trickled onto the road. The driver's other hand was pressed against the detective's neck, feeling for a pulse that Mycroft desperately hoped was present.

The elder Holmes brother forced his eyes away from the screen on the cluttered desk and pulled his phone from his blazer pocket. Taking one last glance at the screen he pressed speed dial 4 and raised his shaking phone to his ear. The call answered on the third ring.

"John, Sherlock's been hit down"

**Author's Note!**

Just made some small changes to improve the writing, not change to the plot though.

Bethany x

Please Review 


	2. Phone Calls and Taxi Rides

**Chapter 2: **

**Phone calls and Taxi rides**

John was slumped in his favourite chair with his eyes shut in a way that would have made Sherlock proud when he heard the repetitive ringing of his phone somewhere across the room. He huffed in annoyance and opened his eyes as he stumbled across the room, a little light headed from sleep. It was probably Sherlock calling and John knew he would only make the mistake once of not answering the consulting detectives call when he was on a case. He had wanted to go with his friend that morning but the younger Holmes had bluntly refused, saying that whatever he was doing was a "one man job". John had sulked about the rejection for a while before he finally fell asleep in his chair, still worn out from the tiring week at the surgery. When the phone was finally located, under Sherlock's still half full cup of tea, he was surprised to see Mycroft's name as the caller ID. Confused, John pressed the green button and held the phone to his ear.

"Hello?"

"John, Sherlock's been hit down" came Mycroft's icy voice through the phone, sending shivers down his spine. The bluntness of the comment confused him; maybe he had heard it wrong?

"What?" asked John, his brain refusing to accept what he had just been told.

"I know you heard me correctly, John. Sherlock was knocked down by car on Oxford Street, he ran into a road. I think it might be best if you go to him, you are his Doctor after all." continued the elder Holmes brother, his voice as calm and empty of emotion as always. From the way he spoke you could never guess that his little brother had just been hit by a car.

"Where is he?" asked John, finding it hard to keep his voice from shaking.

"They will take him to Saint Bartholomew's Hospital."

John nodded slightly wondering whether or not to try and find Sherlock on Oxford Street or drive straight to the hospital. He needn't have worried for long as Mycroft's cold voice interrupted his thoughts, doing that creepy mind reading _thing _that Sherlock excelled at; maybe it was a Holmes thing?

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffics awful" drawled the elder Holmes, his perfect calmness obvious even down the phone line.

John swallowed loudly, his body frozen in shock. He didn't want to believe the news but he knew it was the sort of thing that could happen to Sherlock, he had seen the detective rush across busy roads before, missing his death by a second. It was such a Sherlock thing to do, he could become so wrapped up in his own head that he would forget what was happening around him.

Eventually John became aware of the high-pitched dial tone emerging from the phone that was still clamped to his ear. Slowly he lowered it, his brain coming back into focus. He needed to get to Sherlock. Shoving the phone in his pocket he darted across the room before thundering down the stairs.

"Sherlock's been run down!" he yelled at Mrs Hudson's door on his way past, hoping she was in and not bothering to stop for a reply. He fumbled with the lock even though his hands were perfectly steady, but eventually the wooden door swung open. The blast of cold air cut him like a knife as he stepped onto the street, reminding him of the coat that was still up in the flat. Annoyingly, Baker Street was completely void of taxies. John had gained a compete jealousy of Sherlock's ability to hail cabs and have them flying up to meet him shortly after their first case but John had never, never wanted that ability as much as he did now.

John huffed in annoyance as he started running down the road towards Crawford Street deciding that even slow progress was better than no progress. Anyway he was more likely to find a cab on one of the larger roads. Mid-way down Baker Street a black cab loomed in the distance. John raised his hand, waving wildly, needing this cab to stop. He nearly jumped for joy when the yellow indicator flashed, showing the cab was pulling over.

The drive to Saint Bart's was not a long trip really; Sherlock made it there most days, either to look at bodies or to beg Molly for more gruesome science experiments or just to "borrow" the lab equipment. Occasionally he even walked there. But the drive took forever for John with only his racing heartbeat the worries for company. It was one of those days that when you're in a rush every single set of lights would change to red and it would take twice the normal time to get wherever you were going. The traffic slowed as they neared the Hospital, increasing Johns fidgeting enough to alert the driver.

"I'm sorry for the traffic, mate. Apparently someone was knocked down on Oxford Street, caused quite a jam" the driver explained, glancing back at his passenger in the rear-view mirror.

"Yea, I know." Replied John, trying and failing to keep his voice normal. "It was my flatmate. That's why I'm…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know." mumbled the driver, unsure how to reply as the car lapsed back into silence.

The driver didn't try to restart the conversation after that, leaving John to wander in his thoughts. Had Mycroft actually said anything other than that Sherlock had been hit? John didn't think so but couldn't work out if this was good or bad news. Or maybe the elder Holmes brother didn't know. No, that was impossible: Mycroft knew _everything. _The puzzling thoughts filled John's mind until the driver of the cab coughed loudly. John startled and opened his eyes, trying to remember closing them in the first place.

"We're here" the driver said, nodding his head slightly towards the window. It was true, outside the window of the parked car was the expensive front door to the hospital.

"Oh, thanks" Mumbled John as he rummaged in his pockets before sighing when he remembered that his wallet was still in his coat. And that his coat was still in the flat.

"Don't worry about it, drives on me" Grinned the cabbie, noticing John's hurried searching followed by the sigh.

"Um, thanks so much." He replied quickly as he scrambled from the cab. Without a glance behind him, John crossed the path, then, with his heart hammering in his throat, he hurried up the stone steps towards the gliding glass doors of Saint Bart's.


	3. The Darker Side Of Waiting

**Chapter 3: **

**The Darker Side of Waiting **

"I wouldn't try to get to Oxford street if I were you, John. I've heard the traffic's awful" drawled Mycroft, not letting a drop of emotion slip into his voice. He was good at that, well he had to be, considering his past. When John didn't reply he lowered the trembling phone from his ear, pressed the red button and set it calmly on the desk in front of him. The desk was still cluttered with papers, and Mycroft's elbows slipped slightly as he rested his head in his hands, sliding them under the glasses that he didn't realise he was still wearing. He rubbed his tired eyes, wanting nothing better than to go to sleep and forget everything but he knew that it was impossible, presides he had to deal with Sherlock sooner or later. With a sigh he looked back at the monitor on the desk, surprised to find that the camera had been zoomed in, showing his brother lying in the road in scary clarity. He could see everything. The ambulance crew had arrived and were rolling the young detective onto a stretcher, keeping his back and neck perfectly in line. This frightened Mycroft, but what terrified him more was the sight of the normally hyperactive detective laying still, his eyes shut and the long jagged cut on his forehead.

Mycroft watched through the camera as Sherlock's left leg, head, and neck were immobilised, his heart fluttering in his chest. He hated this, feeling so helpless. His little brother was in serious trouble but all he could do was watch through a bloody camera. The feeling reminded him so much of his childhood, the unpleasant memories gushing back like a waterfall. The eldest Holmes son only looked away from the scene in front of him when his little brother was wheeled into the ambulance and that ambulance had driven away. He glanced up, surprised to see the slightly hazy form of Anthea sitting across the room in a large armchair, typing away furiously on her BlackBerry as normal. The slightly blurriness of the room reminded him to finally take off the glasses that had been sitting on his nose much longer than necessary. He slipped them off, shutting them in the case with a snap and storing them in the breast pocket of his jacket.

Mycroft glanced at his watch, noticing that he had another 3 hours before he could visit Sherlock without looking overly concerned about his brother, which was something he was definitely not willing to do. Sherlock would be annoyed with him anyway, well if he were conscious that was. No, Mycroft felt that his presence at Sherlock's bed side too soon would cause more problems than it would solve and he didn't want to upset his brother at the best of times. Knowing he was not going to get any more work done now he put the precious papers back in their folder and then locked the folder in the hidden safe inside his desk. After sitting for mere seconds with only the clicking of Anthea's BlackBerry keys breaking the silence he had had enough.

"Tea?" Mycroft asked suddenly as scraped his chair back, unable to stand the quiet any longer.

"Oh, yes please" Anthea answered casually, still not looking up from her phone. Mycroft loved having Anthea as his PA but he had to admit the constant texting was beginning to get annoying; he couldn't _talk_ to her anymore.

Fetching the tea didn't take long at all and soon Mycroft was back in his leather chair, in exactly the same situation as before but now with a cup of tea placed neatly on the desk. Anthea sipped hers quietly, texting one handed all the while. He took a glance at the golden watch on his wrist, burying his head in his hands when he realised the time. Only 175 long minutes of waiting left.

The main reception was thriving when John rushed through the automatic glass doors, almost bumping into them in his haste. There were doctors milling about, patients and visitors too but John paid them no attention as he wandered up to the main desk. The receptionist looked up from the computer screen when she heard him approaching. She was youngish, with dark straight hair and big brown eyes which opened wider when she noticed the retired Army doctor storming towards her.

"Hello, how can I help?" she asked trying to keep her voice buoyant as one does in a receptionist job.

"I'm looking for my, er, friend. He was knocked down by a car, do you know if he has been brought in yet?

"Name?" she asked, clicking quickly on the mouse of the computer, eyes flashing from side to side as she read.

"Sherlock Holmes" he answered robotically, "But I don't know if he was conscious when they brought him in so they might not know his name"

"No, no Sherlock Holmes here." She paused for a moment, still clicking furiously. "There was a call out for an unnamed white male who was hit down on Oxford Street about quarter of an hour ago though. Could that be who you're looking for?"

"Um, yes, sounds like him. Where can I-"

"If you go down that corridor to your right you'll get to a waiting room. Someone will come and inform you of what has happened when they can. Until then you'll just have to wait" she interrupted calmly.

"But I need to know when he-" John argued, unhappy being told to wait at a time like this.

"There is nothing more I can do to help you so please go to the waiting room" she snapped, arms crossed and her good receptionist mood now absent.

"Look I need to know what-"

"Look, Sir, if you do not leave this desk now then I will have to have you removed from the hospital" she warned, angrily.

John turned on his heal, huffing in frustration as he marched away from the desk and down the corridor on his right.

True to the receptionists word a large waiting area sat midway down the corridor. It was filled with those horrid blue hospital benches but the room was nearly empty of life, only a few small clusters of people. They all had the same anxious look on their faces, a complete contrast, he reminded himself, to the livid one he was wearing. He took a seat, the hard blue plastic digging into his back as he leaned his head against the wall behind him. John had seen many car accident victims in his short career in London and had had to tell many families the news they had been waiting for. He had seen so many different reactions, the good, where the families shakily laughed in relief that everything was going to be okay, or cried in joy, or simply hugged. But then he had seen the bad, the news where whole families would tear up, sobbing on each other's shoulders or sit in shocked silence, wondering what the world held for them now, the impact this would have. He couldn't help wondering to himself which reaction he would give when the news was finally told.

And that was the problem with waiting, it gave you time to think, time to mull things over in your head, time for niggling little thoughts to grow and grow until they filled your mind and drove you mad. And so John hated this, the waiting. He was normally such a patient person but somehow he was unable to tolerate the long spaces of empty time that surrounded him. The waiting allowed his mind to wander, dream up all sorts of terrible scenarios, was Sherlock going to ever wake up, would he die from some internal injuries, would he be brain damaged? The list went on and on, the dreaded thoughts thundering in his brain, consuming him, drowning him.

He physically jumped when he felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder, a sharp gasp escaping his lips. It was a Doctor, wearing blue scrubs with a stethoscope draped around his neck. He looked exhausted and, for a second, John felt his heart drop in fear.

"John Watson?" the doctor asked, his voice calm, showing no emotion.

The retired army doctor swallowed noisily. "Yes" he replied, his heart thrumming in his throat.


	4. Hospital Visits

**Chapter Four: **

**Hospital Visits **

Both John and the doctor were silent as they hurried through the long winding corridors of the hospital and the lift ride was even quieter without their shoes tapping gently on the polished floor, leaving only the mechanic whirring to fill the gapping silence. John didn't feel like saying anything and the other doctor seemed reluctant to look at John let alone speak. For the life of him, john couldn't work out why but he made a promise to himself that he would never let it become this awkward in a lift when he got back to work. Eventually, the metallic ping and the running of the doors signified their freedom from the lift and John followed the doctor out, down a few more white corridors until the came to a halt outside Room 78. Slowly, the doctor pushed the door open before stepping back to allow John to enter.

Sherlock was awake when he entered the room and the horrid images of a near-death Sherlock washed from his mind by a staggering relief. Mycroft had left very little information to go on when he had called, and John had taken this as a sign of bad news. However, the detective was sitting up in the white bed in his pyjamas leaning back against the pillows with his hands in his lap with the I.V wire trailing across the white sheets. John had feared the worst but the only visible sign of the accident was the large, white patch stuck to the detective's forehead and even that was half covered by this dark curls.

He was looking down at his hands, fiddling with his nails and pretending that he had not noticed anyone enter the room. John was sure he had though, Sherlock never missed anything. The army doctor looked back at the other man who was standing silently by the door. He seemed to understand the glance though and left the room without saying a word. As soon as the door had clicked shut Sherlock had looked up from his hands which he clasped together and rested back in his lap. Doctoring instinct taking over John moved forward and snatched the medical chart from the end of his friend's bed, flipping it open to the page written shortly after he had arrived at A&E.

"Un-named male, Pedestrian Victim in a car to pedestrian collision. Possible impact sites of upper left leg, abdomen, chest, and head (Bull's-eye cracks found on windscreen). Patient in unconscious and unresponsive with blunt force injuries to forehead, CT scan advised. X-Rays on chest and Left leg/hip advised. Bruising to abdomen, no signs of internal bleeding found as yet." John read, as he paced the small room in frustration.

"You're limping, John" Sherlock pointed out curiously from the bed, his voice low and steady as normal.

"I'm limping?" he asked with his voice hard as he span to face his friend. "You're going to be the one bloody limping! What were you even _thinking_ when you ran into that road? You could have been killed, you know?"

"But I wasn't, killed, I mean. I'm fine Jo-" Sherlock started, his voice bold in the angry room.

"Well that's fine then" Said John, the anger still present in his voice. "Sherlock Holmes is going to be fine so all is well" He paused, running his fingers through his hair in apparent frustration. "Sorry, but do you know how worried I was? I got a call from your idiot of a brother telling me you had been hit down and were on your way to hospital and then the cab driver said we couldn't get through because the accident had caused such a backlog…Sorry" he trailed off, walking across the room to sit in the chair at Sherlock's bedside, the medical document still held in his hand.

"I'm sorry, John" Sherlock sighed eventually, his eyes carefully watching for any reaction from the man across the room. John lifted his head. An apology was unexpected, to say the least, it was just something that wasn't said by the sociopathic detective, but the look in Sherlock's eye showed that the words had meaning to them. It was a proper 'sorry' then, one that was meant, not just the sort said out of habit or politeness. John drew in a breath and forced himself to calm, his gaze lowering to fix on the hands in his lap. He didn't reply and the room drifted silent.

John eventually looked up to see Sherlock still sitting up in bed but his head was now drooping and his eyes were halfway shut. He looked exhausted and the question of a concussion flickered into John's mind.

"Did your results come back?" he asked, indicating the folder he still held in his hands when Sherlock turned to look. Sherlock paused for a moment as though in thought before he shook his head slowly. John sighed and he felt his eyebrows furrow as he looked at his friend. The detective was flagging now, that much was clear. He bent forwards, looking into the unfocused eyes of his friend.

"Uh, I think you're concussed"

"Undoubtedly" admitted Sherlock, a slight grin on his pale face. He closed his eyes and his head dropped, jerking up again before it even reached his chin as he tried to keep himself awake.

"Why don't you get some rest" suggested John his eyes filled with a sudden sympathy.

"Concussion" Said Sherlock pointedly, lifting his hand to rest a finger on his temple. The IV line trailed too, reminding John of the colourless liquid that was being pumped into his friend's blood. It was saline, probably, to keep him hydrated but morphing was also a possibility.

"Doctor" returned John, nodding at himself and Sherlock rolled his eyes as best he could before lowering himself back onto his pillows with a wince. He tried to say something in reply but he was gone before his head had barely hit the pillow.

There was a soft knock on the wooden door shortly after Sherlock had drifted off. He stirred slightly at the noise and mumbled something incoherent but did not fully awake. John got up to answer the door but it had opened before he was even half way across the room and Mycroft slipped inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.

He was wearing a dark grey suit and dressed to perfection as always but John was just beginning to see the slight cracks in his façade. He held a folded shirt and trousers in one hand with a jacket on a hanger on his wrist. Silently he stepped towards the bed in the centre of the room, his eyes fearfully fixed only on his younger brother.

"Just asleep" John supplied, crossing the room back to his chair. Mycroft nodded and tore his eyes from the figure in the bed, moving to sit in the chair on the other side of the Sherlock to the one that John occupied. He put the clothes on the end of the bed and crossed his legs, resting his hands on his knees, the golden ring on his right hand glinting in the lowered light of the room.

"Prognosis?" he asked, his head tilting in question. John sucked in a breath through his lips and leant back in his chair.

"Uh, head wound, concussion. Some sort of injury to his left leg although I doubt his femur is broken, possible broken ribs" He shrugged slightly. "I haven't any results so I can't say for sure." Mycroft's expression remained blank but he glanced down at his brother on the bed.

Sherlock was lying on his back with his head turned to the side to burry into the pillow. His expression was pinched, from the pain, John supposed, and he winced occasionally in his sleep. John knew he preferred to sleep cured up on his side but it was likely that his ribs and leg would be hurting him. His heart rate was strong and steady, though, and it left a reassuring beeping in the room from the monitors.

"Sherlock won't be happy if he wakes to find you here, Mycroft" Said John after a minute, glancing up at the man who sat opposite him in the small room. Mycroft looked up too, his head tilting again.

"No, I don't suppose he will be" replied the elder Holmes thoughtfully. He glanced back at his brother once more before rising to his feet. "Give Sherlock my regards, if you will" he smiled a fake smile as he crossed the room and opened the wooden door. "Good day, Doctor Watson"

Barely five minutes after Mycroft left there was another knock at the door. This one was louder and Sherlock awoke with a jump shortly followed by a short hiss of pain. John jumped to his feet in order to help his friend but thought better of it when Sherlock threw the covers over his head in protest and turned to face the door as it opened. It was a lady who looked to be in her early forties with a green folder in her hand, she glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on her patient in the bed.

"Is he asleep?" she asked, her gaze flicking between John and the bed. She looked worried. John was about to reply when Sherlock mumbled from under the covers. The doctor smiled slightly at her patient but then turned to John and opened the file in her hands.

"I just brought his results from his X-ray" She said, pulling a sheet of paper from the fill and studying it for a moment before looking back up. "No breakages to his ribs but the bruising on his chest will make him sore for a bit." She flipped to a new image and studied it again before frowning slightly. "His hip bone is cracked though; it's commonly known as a hip pointer, although normally the bone isn't cracked, it's just muscle damage." John grimaced at the news and held his hand out for the X-ray which the doctor handed over without issue.

"It will limit the movement and strength in this leg for a couple of weeks but with rest and ice it should recover without any medical interference. Once he feels able to it he can begin light exercise but until then he should try to keep his weight off it" She explained as John studied the X-ray image and Sherlock groaned quietly from under the sheets.

"I read about a CT scan on his head being advised too?" John asked and the doctor shook her head.

"No, he was awake and communicating before his time slot came so we cancelled it. He does have a concussion, although it's surprisingly moderate for the time he spent unconscious. I just need to check that for him and then there isn't any other reason to keep him here" she said with a smile as she turned to face the bed.

Sherlock pushed the cover down before heaving himself up into a sitting position. His hair was ruffled worse than ever but his eyes were brighter than before and there was a pink glow in his cheeks from having his head under the covers. He let the doctor shine a torch into his eyes and smiled when she said he was free to go. He sat quietly whilst she removed his IV line too.

Both The doctor and John left the room then whilst Sherlock changed into the clothes his brother had brought and John was given a prescription for pain killers and a strict word not to let Sherlock sleep for over three hours at a time until his pupils returned to the same size. She said goodbye then, leaving him on his own just as Sherlock opened the door, his expression sour and his left arm wrapped tight around his chest.

"Sherlock, sit down!" John exclaimed as he pulled his friend's arm over his shoulder and helped him over to the bed. Sherlock winced a bit at the movement but flopped back on to the bed all the same, a hand still held on his chest.

"What part of 'he should try and keep his weight off it' do you not understand?" asked John, the exasperation clear in his voice.


	5. When Nothing Makes Sense

**Chapter 5: **

**When Nothing Makes Sense**

It took longer to release Sherlock than John had first thought it would and it was dark by the time they had left the hospital. It had taken a great deal of time to get him to use the crutches he had been given because a) Sherlock was very, very stubborn and, b) he had never used them before in his life and the hospital staff would not let him leave before he was able to navigate stairs on them. John had decided that it was unlikely for Sherlock to never have been told to use crutches before so he had either refused to use them or had deleted the information since then. It probably didn't help matters that the detective's concussion was making him tired and grouchy and Sherlock was never compliant even at the best of times.

He had been sulking at the time too, and would not snap out of it even when John had hissed to him he was acting like a child. The sulk had started when they had been given the bag of Sherlock's belongings he had had with him at the time of the accident. His phone was in the bag, and his wallet, and his shoes, and the numerous other items Sherlock had kept in the pockets of his great coat but neither his clothes nor the coat itself were there. Sherlock hadn't given a second thought about his clothes because even though they were worth a lot of money they were easily replaced. The coat was a different matter though. He had demanded it be given back, yelling furiously when he was told it had been cut off of him in the A&E and giving everyone around him a headache, never mind his own concussion.

Still he had given up eventually, collapsing into the wheelchair they had brought with little resistance. He had tired himself out and his pain killers would be wearing off by now leaving with an aching leg and chest and what was no doubt now a pounding deep within his head. They had walked to the main road from the hospital to find a taxi, Sherlock stumbling along on his crutches with his head now drooping and John walking close beside just in case.

He had slumped into his seat as soon as he was settled into the taxi, his head resting on the cooling glass of the window and his eyes tightly shut. John had quietly told the driver the address and had then sat in silence, watching at Sherlock fell asleep with the dark glass dulling the pounding in his head. His leg was hurting him too, and it being bent up to fit in the cab certainly wasn't helping him at all.

The drive back to Baker Street wasn't long, barely even quarter of an hour in the early evening traffic but it was still a struggle for John to rouse his friend when they got home. He swayed on the spot when he was helped from the cab, his crutches held weakly and his blinks slow and heavy. John paid for the cab using the money from Sherlock's wallet as his own was still inside the flat along with his coat and unfortunately his keys. He asked Sherlock if he had taken a key with him that morning, although knowing his friend, he doubted he had.

The detective looked puzzled for a moment before slowly shaking his head. He shut his eyes then, swaying slightly on the spot, before replying. "Weren't planning on going out, in a mood, probably slept" he mumbled, his eyes still shut and his posture limp. John swore before knocking at the door for Mrs Hudson.

Sherlock nearly fell once during the wait and would have hit the floor, saved only by John's lightning quick reactions and surprising strength for someone so small. John sat his friend down on the step after that, watching with worry as his eyes fluttered to stay open and his head lolled onto the doorframe. He hadn't protested at all, a fact which worried John more than the sleepiness.

Both men were shivering by the time Mrs Hudson opened the door. She was still dressed and was wearing an apron. She had been cooking then, something she mainly did when she was bored or worried. Her expression told she was worried though, and she stood back to led John in.

"Oh, John, Thank goodness! I was so worried, how-" she began asking, only to be cut off by John as he held out the crutches he had in his hands.

"I'm Sorry Mrs Hudson, but can you please hold these?" the army doctor asked as he thrust the pair of crutches towards his landlady. She opened her mouth to protest but took the crutches, her eyes following him as he bent down to help Sherlock from the floor. He opened his eyes blearily at the motion but let John put and arm round his chest and haul him unsteadily to his feet.

"Oh, Sherlock dear! I didn't see you down there!" she exclaimed, concern in her eyes as she held the door open for John, her gaze flying over her tenant and resting on the white patch on his forehead. She shut the door when they were both inside, resting the crutches against the wall. John half dragged Sherlock to the stairs, setting him down on the steps and letting his head lean back against the wall. Mrs Hudson followed them, her expression anxious.

"Is he okay?" she asked worriedly. The question was aimed at John but it was Sherlock who replied first.

"Perfectly fine" sighed the detective sleepily, staring at his landlady through glazed eyes.

The night that followed was hard for all who were involved. The first task was getting Sherlock up the stairs to their flat. He was nearly asleep and couldn't put any weight on his left leg now that his pain meds had worn off. His ribs were hurting him too which made supporting him harder. John had been annoyed to discover that Sherlock's bed was unmade and covered with science equipment, clothes, books and other irrelevant things and it had taken Mrs Hudson nearly as long to clean it as it had taken John to get Sherlock in to his pyjamas. Eventually, however, the detective was asleep and Mrs Hudson went back downstairs with a whispered 'goodnight' to John.

John himself ad not retired to his own bed, choosing to settle in the armchair in Sherlock's room instead. It wasn't comfortable and the blanket he had taken kept sliding to the floor but with his friend's concussion having such an effect on him he considered it a necessity. He set his alarm on his phone before he drifted off, letting it wake him three hours later as planned. He checked on Sherlock, waking him gently just to check that he could. The detective had opened his eyes, his gaze unfocussed in the darkened room.

"'m tryin' t' sleep, J'hn" he muttered, turning onto his side away from his friend. John smiled.

"Yeah, I know, and I'm just making sure you're not drifting off too deep." Sherlock muttered something in reply but had fallen asleep again when he was asked to repeat what he had said. John sighed and took himself back to his chair, setting his alarm again before letting himself slip back off. The procedure was repeated throughout the night, but Sherlock remained confused and his gaze stayed unfocused.

John was woken by the sun the next morning, his phone held limply in his hand. It was just after seven and the screen of his phone told him he had another hour before he needed to check on his friend. He stood slowly, stretching out the aches in his back and shoulder before crossing the room to check on Sherlock. The detective was still asleep, his head turned away from the light.

Sherlock slept for most of the day, waking only briefly every few hours when John went through to rouse him and give him his medicine. If he was asleep the painkillers weren't really needed but the anti-inflammatory would help his leg. He winced a lot when he was awake and muttered incoherently in his sleep. John had spent much of the day tidying the flat and checking on Sherlock. He only left their flat once, and that was only to go down to Mrs Hudson to ask her to take Sherlock's prescription to the pharmacy. She had agreed without hesitation and had brought back the medication along with a couple of days food supply little under an hour later. His sleeping continued into the night too, and John was forced to spend another night in the chair beside his friend.

Sherlock woke confused and lost in the morning with a dull pounding in his head and an ache in his chest that throbbed with every breath. He knew he was in his bed, but that was a fact confusing in itself. He never slept in his bed, taking most of his post-case naps on the sofa instead. It had just been habit at first, but then when his bed became buried under all the rubbish he had piled on top of it he simply couldn't be bothered to uncover it just to sleep.

The pain in his head and chest suggested he had been injured somehow, which was confirmed by the patch stuck to his forehead and the tenderness of the skin underneath when he pushed on it. Head injury then, caused by impact, undoubtedly. The fact that he couldn't remember the incident and the pounding in his head suggested a concussion but that still didn't help to explain how he had got to his bed, let alone how it was now clear. That would be John's doing probably, because if he had come home by himself then he would have just gone to sleep on the sofa. Besides, someone had put stitches his head.

Was John with him then when it had happened or had he come home and John had found him here? He tried to remember if he had been on a case at the time of the incident, and he decided he had, something to do with desks on the ceiling, although that didn't make much sense to him now. Opening his eyes, he examined the room for information, instantly spotting the crutches propped in the corner of the room. He had injured a leg too, by the looks of things, and been to hospital too, either that or John had taken them at some point. That wasn't a very likely possibility though, because if he needed crutches then John was sure to have taken him for an x-ray just to be sure.

Curiously he sat up, instantly feeling a burning in his left thigh. He hissed through his teeth, clamping his eyes shut at the unexpected sensation. When it faded he opened them again, noticing for the first time the rumpled blanket hanging over the arm of the chair at the bottom of his bed. John had slept here then, for more than one night by the looks of the blanket. That fitted with his diagnosis of concussion, but the 'more than one night' part of his deduction bothered him.

He needed to speak to John, because although he wasn't worried about his own condition, the lack of details that his memory could provide was disconcerting at least. Slowly he pushed himself up from the bed and hobbled across the room towards the doorway. His leg flared with every step and nothing sat quite still in his vision but those where facts that could be ignored for the time being. John must have heard him as he entered the kitchen, because he hurried down the stairs, a look of mixed relief and anger on his face.

"What are you doing, you idiot?" he demanded, slipping an arm under Sherlock's shoulder and helping him to limp towards the sofa.

"Needed to ask you-" started Sherlock, breaking off to clamp his jaw when a particularly large hop jarred both his leg and chest simultaneously. John muttered an apology but continued towards the sofa, knowing it would be better to get his friend there now rather than stop half way.

The detective let out a sigh when he was helped onto the sofa, shutting his eyes and breathing hard despite the ache in his chest. John was standing before him when he re-opened his eyes, a glass of water in one hand and two three white pills held out in the other. He took them and swallowed the water, downing it in one.

"What was it you needed?" asked John when Sherlock looked back up at him, the glass now held limply in one hand. Sherlock paused for a second before speaking, a strange look of confusion in his eyes.

"How long had I been unconscious?" he asked curiously, completely avoiding the question.

"Ugh, you weren't unconscious, more asleep really. And the accident was the day before last so it's been a day and a bit."

Sherlock blinked in confusion, he had been asleep that long? I did make sense when he thought about it though, tied in with the now fading pounding in his head and the blanket beside the chair. He nodded for a second before his mind caught up with the rest of John's little speech. He had said accident.

"What accident?" he asked sharply, turning back to John who was still beside the sofa, the empty glass in his hand. He looked at Sherlock for a second before replying.

"You don't remember?" he asked, his expression now filled with worry.


	6. Thinking Things Through

**Chapter 6:**

**Thinking Things Through**

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning on the sofa, his laptop on his knees and his feet both up on the coffee table. John would appear beside him every so often, offering drinks and food and medicine. He accepted the pills and coffee and tea but left the rest, deciding that putting food in his still spinning stomach was just tempting fate. Presides, it wasn't as if he ate on cases normally.

The screen of the laptop showed a video clip from one of the CCTV cameras on Oxford Street, this one showing the view from the top of the road. Soon enough two tiny figures rushed onto the screen, only staying on the path for mere seconds before they darted into the road. The first man made it across but the second was hit, his head colliding with the wind shield of the car before he fell to the ground, his skin nearly white against the tarmac.

With a sigh he paused the video clip, bending over to get a closer view of the still on the screen. Something was wrong and he knew it because despite the fact he was unpredictable and dangerous to both himself and others he was easily capable of calculating the speed of cars and knowing whether he should run across the road or not. As it so happened he couldn't remember the accident itself, let alone the mathematical equations which would have been running through his head at the time, so he just couldn't be sure of his conclusions.

After a second he closed the video, clicking on another angle instead. This one was from a camera opposite the road, directed so that after a few seconds he ran around the corner directly opposite. At the same time the car drove onto the screen from the right and moments later they hit, the driver literally jumping from the car and running to his side. Sherlock frowned at the video, watching as the little people dashed around the screen, their panic evident even in the silent black and white image on his screen. Something was wrong with the accident, a tiny little detail that he knew he ought to have picked up by now. It was hard to think though, from the dull pounding within his head and the slow sticky sensation of thinking through treacle that was blamed on the concussion or the medicine or possibly both.

Frowning again, he pulled back the timer on the video, returning it to the point where he had just turned the corner. He watched it again, this time slowing it right down but there was nothing his sluggish mind could focus on. On the third play through something caught his eye, that crucial little detail he had been looking for. Shutting the lid of the laptop he lay back on the sofa, resting his pounding head on a cushion and his legs on the arm. He threw an arm over his eyes to block out the light and drifted to his mind palace, letting the newly found information swirl in his mind, sorting itself out into the facts he knew were there.

Sherlock was brought back to consciousness some time later by the ringing of a phone. He cursed himself initially, hating his sluggish mind for letting him fall asleep at such an important time of thought. The throbbing in his head was back too, informing him that he had been asleep long enough for the pain killers to have worn off. That was probably about three hours ago then.

When the phone didn't stop ringing he rolled over, pulling the cushion out from under his head and using it to cover his ears instead. He would leave John to get the phone, especially since it felt like thee was a hammer in his head. It wasn't long before the light thudding of footsteps entered the room, followed shortly by a sigh and, finally, the ringing ended.

"Hello?" asked John, the phone now held to his ear. The room was filled with nothing more than the quiet squeaking down the phone before John let out a huff.

"No, he's asleep. Presides, I don't want him out of the flat until tomorrow at the earliest. His concussion is bad enough as it is." John sounded irritated at whoever it was down the phone line and Sherlock knew that he was soon to begin pacing the flat, a habit normally saved for his conversations with Harry. The voice spoke again and he listened carefully, trying to decide who John was speaking too. It was likely to be Lestrade, due to the simple fact that whoever was speaking was trying to get him out of the flat, a request John was defiantly not impressed with.

"Look, I'm not in the mood for threats" It was Mycroft then, definitely. Lestrade was keen on him going to crime scenes and he would beg if it helped to get him but he wasn't low enough to threaten John like that. The phone squeaked again and John's breathing deepened in frustration.

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft, and I really don't want to end up on the wrong side of the however many governments you control but I am also a doctor, and right now my patient is both concussed and asleep and talking to you will not help the situation." Sherlock very nearly grinned at this point, loving John's boldness with his brother and the comments he was replying with.

The reply on the phone was quick, maybe three short syllables at most but whatever was said caused John to turn on the spot and take a few steps across the room. He stilled then and Sherlock opened his eyes, noticing that John was staring right at him, the phone held limply by his ear. His expression was mixed, caught somewhere between confusion, surprise and annoyance, although Sherlock suspected the third emotion was not directed at him. John blinked, twice, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, holding a hand out in waiting, telling John to put the momentarily silent phone into his hand. John did so with a warning look and moved back to his chair, grabbing the newspaper from the floor and pretending to read.

"What do you want?" Sherlock demanded, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the sunlight.

Half an hour later and John was holding Sherlock's crutches as the man tried to climb from the cab with only one usable leg, having already refused assistance. His mood was dark again and it had been that way since Mycroft's call, a conversation John doubted he would have understood even if he had heard both halves seeing as much of it had been spoken in French. He knew Mycroft had threatened his brother though, a fact which neither he nor Sherlock were happy about.

Mycroft's office turned out to be no different to John's expectations, being a large, important looking building filled with important looking people. The halls of the office were paved with a white stone and the walls were panelled with a rich wood. The bare desks that lined the walls were of the same dark wood, their polished surfaces empty bar the occasional lamp which glowed orange in the dimly lit , however, paid no attention to the impressive architecture as he led them through the marble corridors, his mind filled with his sour mood and the difficult task he had with crutches, a concussion, and the aching bruises in his chest.

John was so lost in his thoughts that he nearly walked into the back of the detective when he suddenly stopped outside a wooden door. The army doctor presumed it was Mycroft's personal room as Sherlock didn't knock on the door before marching in, albeit with less of his intimidating power than normal, probably due to the lack of woollen coat. The missing coat hadn't been mentioned since the day before at the hospital and Sherlock seemed to be avoiding thinking about his loss.

Mycroft looked up as the door burst open, his eyes peering over the rims of his glasses. He was seated in a leather chair behind a mahogany desk and the wall behind him was lined with bookshelves filled with ancient leather bound volumes. There was a small flat screen telly amongst the papers on the desk; an object witch John would certainly not have thought would be in the private office of Mycroft Holmes.

John watched from the doorway as Sherlock stormed across the room towards his brother, a murderous glance in his eyes. Mycroft raised his eyebrows and capped his pen, eventually leaning back in his chair and resting his hands on his lap.

"Welcome, Sherlock, do take a seat" his voice was filled with forced lightness as he indicated to the chair in front on the deck, a fake smile on his lips. Sherlock stayed standing, his icy eyes fixed on the man before him.

"That was uncalled for, Mycroft, it's none of your business and none of his either" Mycroft raised one dark eyebrow at his brother as Sherlock spoke, his voice a low hiss.

"Anything that motivates you, dear brother, cannot be uncalled for" Said Mycroft, sweetly.

"Childish" Sherlock hissed, turning away from his brother and running a hand through his hair, the crutch now resting on the desk. John watched the scene, his eyes flicking between the brothers. Sherlock looked livid, a common expression for him whenever he was with Mycroft but there was a hint of something else hidden in his features. Mycroft was observing his brother carefully, although his expression remained calm and his hands stayed folded on his lap.

"And what would happen if he did know?" Mycroft asked quietly, his eyes fixed on his brother.

Sherlock turned back, his expression now unreadable. "There are some things best left undisturbed; you of all people should know that". His eyes locked with his brothers and for a minute neither of them moved.

It was Mycroft who broke the silence. "Mummy always disliked it when we argued" he sighed eventually, and John thought he heard a note of sadness in the normally empty speech of the eldest Holmes.

"Good thing that she never got to see the man you grew into, then" Sherlock replied, his voice emotionless and eyes still fixed on his brother.

Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief as he lowered himself onto the sofa of 221B sometime later. He lay back with his eyes shut, putting his legs up on the arm and messaged his palms to free them of the aches of having to bare his weight. John sighed from the kitchen doorway, from where he had been watching his friend, and wandered into the kitchen to put the kettle on. He threw bread in the toaster and fetched Sherlock's pills whilst the kettle boiled, knowing that his friend but have a monster headache by now. He hated Mycroft for that, because despite the fact that his brother was concussed and injured he had forced him from the flat with threats.

They had stayed in Mycroft's office for over an hour and after that and the cab ride home his leg was aching and his hands were sore from taking his weight. Nothing more about the apparent threat between the Holmes brothers had been mentioned, and the rest of the hour had been spent with Sherlock examining the new case that Mycroft had provided.

It was a boring case even by John's standards and he knew that Sherlock had only taken it to appease his brother. John hadn't asked his friend about the threat despite the fact he knew the brothers had to have been talking about him. He wasn't upset that Sherlock wasn't sharing whatever secrets he had, because John had a fair few things he would like to keep private himself.

The case, it had turned out, was only to do with Mycroft and a set of his important papers that had gone missing. He himself had been the last person to see them, and had locked them in his safe himself shortly before leaving for the hospital the day before last to visit Sherlock. He had locked the door behind him and had kept one of the two keys with him in his pocket and the other was with 'Anthea', though even she didn't know the code to open the safe. There were no fingerprints either, not on the door handle or on the safe and everything was just as Mycroft had left it when he had entered the room the day before, the only difference being the lack of important papers that he mysteriously vanished.

According to Mycroft those papers were of "national importance" and "could have implications on a majority of the world". John did believe him, but couldn't help thinking that maybe the eldest Holmes just didn't want anyone to find out about his loss. Sherlock had involved himself in the case, but had found little of importance and had left both exhausted and silent, resting his head back upon the glass of the window during the cab ride home.

John was startled back to reality by the ping of the toast ejecting itself from the toaster and clattering on the worktop. He buttered them and made the tea before taking them through to the lounge, making a second trip to fetch the tea which he had left on the counter. Sherlock was still lying on the sofa with an arm over his eyes to block out the light. John went over with a mug of tea in one hand and the pills in the other and tapped his friend gently on the arm. Sherlosk jumped slightly but remover his arm, pushing himself up and accepting both the tea and the pills. He left the toast though, lying back as soon as his mug was empty.

John ate his toast in his chair then, having nothing better to do, retrieved his laptop from under the chair and opened chrome and clicked on the link to his blog.

_The One-Man-Job_

_Well, this is a note of apology in advance because, as you can tell from the title, this last case was a one-man-job, meaning that I was not allowed to be involved in any way, shape or form. So anyway, for the past four days Sherlock has been investigating a criminal who simply breaks into office-blocks in the dead of night just to upturn the room. And when I say 'upturn' I mean upturn. I have seen only the photo of the first office but it was really strange. Somehow, someone had broken into the office and glued everything to the celling without being caught on camera. As I said, strange. Two more offices were broken into before Sherlock got a lead. He suddenly ran from the flat yesterday on a one-man-job. I don't actually know what happened on this one-man-job so don't ask. Later that afternoon I got a call from Sherlock's brother saying he had been knocked over by a car (Sherlock – not his brother). He's fine, by the way, just some bruises. So I don't know what will happen with the case._

_I'll update again when I know more. _

John hit the 'post' button and popped his last bite of toast into his mouth. He glanced over at Sherlock who was still lying on the sofa, his plate still full and abandoned on the table. With a sigh John closed the laptop with a snap and slid it under his chair for safekeeping. Recently he had learnt that Sherlock was less likely to use the laptop if he had to bother to bend down to get it and would often fetch his own instead. Across the room the BlackBerry buzzed and Sherlock sat up, rummaging in his pocket for the phone. He had only looked at the phone for a second when a smile grew on his lips.

"That was Lestrade, he has another case" grinned Sherlock, grabbing his crutches and pushing himself to his feet.


	7. Starting the case

**Chapter 7: **

**Starting the case. **

John sighed as Sherlock left the room; he hadn't wanted Sherlock to leave the flat so soon after his accident and starting a new case wouldn't help the matter at all. He knew there was no point trying to stop Sherlock, and it was better for him to be with his friend than let him go off alone. By the time he had taken the plates and mugs back through to the kitchen and tipped Sherlock's now cold toast into the bin the detective had returned, the whit padded bandage gone from his head and his hair brushed forward in what John supposed was a half-hearted attempt to cover the bruised skin and stitched cut beneath. As a doctor he wasn't happy to have the cut revealed to the open air so soon but so long as Sherlock was careful and kept it clean, it shouldn't make much of a difference.

Outside Baker Street John hailed a cab and helped Sherlock in for the second time that day whilst his friend told the cab driver where to take them. The driver had raised his eyebrows at the request and made a sarcastic comment about them fancying an expensive night out but had driven there none the less. Sherlock had tried to hurry from the cab when it pulled to the side of the road just outside of The Dorchester in Mayfair but stopped when he felt a hand closed around his wrist.

"You're recovering, Sherlock, just remember that" Said John calmly, before releasing his grip and pulling his wallet from his pocket to pay the driver. Sherlock scoffed quietly as he pushed himself from the cab, his balance only faltering slightly before he steadied himself and hurried towards the entrance, his head held high. John followed, catching up with his friend just outside the large glass door. Inside the hotel was just as grand as expected with marble floors and satin bedspreads and a large mahogany reception, the sort of place Mycroft might even think of staying in. The entrance hall was milling with people so nobody stopped them as they made their way to the lifts. Normally Sherlock took the stairs, only taking the lift when necessary but that was not an option really with his leg, especially as they were going to the fourth floor.

Sherlock was silent in the lift, pulling his phone from his pocket and leaning back against the wooden wall of the lift. After a few seconds of looking at the bright screen he shut his eyes and let the BlackBerry drop to his side. John frowned at this, knowing how rotten his friend must feel only days after being knocked down by a car and already at a crime scene. He was determined though, and John had pity on him for that because Sherlock was his own greatest enemy in that sense.

The doors of the lift opened with a metallic ping to reveal Sally Donovan standing in the hallway, with her arms crossed and a sour expression. She stepped forwards as they walked from the lift, letting out an amused huff as Sherlock's crutch stuck on the lip of the lift. He ignored her, his eyes only flicking to her to the briefest of seconds.

"Hello Freak" She greeted, "Accidentally delete how to walk down stairs or something?" she added, stepping to the side to let them pass.

"Close shave, was it Sally?" he asked, bluntly ignoring her question. She looked puzzled by his statement and Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically as he let out a sigh, "Surly your brain can't be that incompetent at retaining Information, Sally? But if you need me to remind you then I'm sure I can."

"I…I don't know what you're going on about, Freak?" she retorted sharply as realisation dawned on her and her eyes narrowed. With one last glare she turned sharply and rushed back up the corridor towards the police tape strung across the hall slightly further up.

John turned to his friend, caught between reprimanding him for upsetting Donovan and asking what she had done but Sherlock had already started up the corridor, his crutches sticking slightly on the thick carpet. He sighed, making a mental not to ask later because, as much as Sherlock shouldn't be cruel to Donavan like that, the woman was just as spiteful and in a way deserved it.

About halfway up the corridor a door had been propped open and more crime scene tape was stretched across the frame. Sherlock ignored it, pulling the tape from the wood and letting it drift slowly to the ground behind him. He cleared his throat and Lestrade jumped round from the conversation he had been having with Anderson.

"What on earth happened to you?" he asked Sherlock, his eyes flicking between the detective's limp leg and the stitched cut on his head. He looked surprised for a second before, his eyebrows raised, before they sank and his face softened as concern overtook his expression.

"I'm sure John's blog can tell you the whole story if you need to know." Sherlock snipped, his eyes now drifting round the crime scene. John looked down at his feet. He hadn't known Sherlock had read the new update to his blog. Or maybe he was just good at guessing what would have been written.

"Yes, anyway." said Lestrade turning back to the crime scene and indicating the body in the centre of the plum coloured bed. The room was well furnished, all dark wood and thick soft fabrics with a large Panasonic TV in the corner opposite a small leather sofa. The body on the bed was bare, the clothes stripped off, with neat dark hair and a long lit across his neck. There was no blood on the sheets though, and very little on the body.

"35 year old male, found in hotel room by the cleaner this morning. Nobody has slept in this room for the past three nights but the body wasn't here when the bed linen was changed after the visitor left. There are no fingerprints or signs of forced entry and all the sets of keys to the rooms are kept in reception. The only time it has been opened since the couple left on three days ago was when the cleaner went in that day and again this morning to prepare it for the new arrivals later today. We've already spoken to the Manager and he says that he doubts any of the cleaners here would be capable of murder." Lestrade explained, ending his small speech with a slight shrug, handing over a picture of each of the cleaners to Sherlock who flipped through them, standing on one leg with the crutches dangling from his arms.

"Are you sure it couldn't have been the cleaner, I mean-" started John, staring at the body on the bed.

"No" interrupted Sherlock. "It defiantly wasn't the cleaners. The manager is right; none of them would be capable of murder." He thrust the picture back at Lestrade before moving to the bed and examining the slash on the man's neck. "Presides the murderer was a man, about six foot one judging by the angle on the cut and the height of the victim"

Sherlock turned back to the body on the bed and picked up the man's left hand, examining his fingers under his pocket magnifier. There was a moment's silence before Anderson huffed and stormed from the room, his voice drifting clearly from the hall as he complained about 'That Freak'. Sherlock ignore the comments, his attention clearly focused somewhere between the body on the bed and the pounding in his head.

"Well?" asked Lestrade after a minute, nodding towards the body on the bed when the consulting detective turned.

"He's in his mid-40's, some sort of very well-paid office job, takes pride in his appearance, all obvious. He wasn't killed here, that's also obvious, no blood on the body despite the throat being slit so body was cleaned, shows the murderer was respectful, didn't want to commit the murder but was forced too. There are no marks on the body presides the cut so he was unlikely unconscious when he was killed, probably a drug slipped into his food or drink. "

"A respectful Murderer?" Asked John, one eyebrow raised. Sherlock looked up, a hint of annoyance in his eyes.

"As I said, John" He stood properly then, one hand gripping the bed post for balance as he scanned the room. "But how did he get in here?" he mused, pausing only a second before he limped to the window, leaving the crutches leaning against the bed. He opened the window, flipping off the safety latch and leaned out, head whipping from side to side as he studied the outside of the building. John had to mentally restrain himself when Sherlock turned himself upside-down to look above the window, balancing precariously on one leg. He said nothing though, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Eventually, Sherlock sighed and wiggled his way back inside the window and straightened up. "They couldn't have got in through the window…" he murmured to himself, completely lost in his thoughts. "The murderer must have stolen the keys from reception, they wouldn't have had the body with them then so it must have entered the hotel a different way… Lestrade, when was the last food delivery?" He asked suddenly, spinning round to fast on his one foot and having to grab the window frame to stop himself from falling.

"I'll get Sally on it" Lestrade replied, suddenly reaching into his pocket and drawing out his phone. Sherlock sighed dramatically in response but said nothing his expression emptying as he returned to his thoughts, his eyes shutting and his free hand drifting up to rub his head. John sighed silently; it was like looking after a child. No, it was worse; at least a child had the sense to complain when they felt ill.

"Are you ready to go?" Asked John suddenly, moving to the bed and picking up his friends crutches. Sherlock looked up, his expression vaguely startled. "Yes. I think I've gathered everything of importance" he replied, face expressionless. He stepped forwards, forgetting himself for a second before his weakened leg buckled with a hiss. John stepped forwards, catching Sherlock's arm and steadying his friend, forcing the crutches into his hands.

"Coming, John?" he asked as he pushed his way past Lestrade, ignoring his concerned expression. John caught the DI's eye on the way past and forced him a smile.

"Don't let him do anything stupid" he said as John passed, opening the browser on his phone.

"Do you want anything? For your headache, I mean" asked John suddenly, watching Sherlock's form sprawled on the sofa, one hand resting on his head. He had been that way since they had returned from the crime scene an hour ago, and the tea John had got him sat cold and untouched on the table. John had eaten dinner since they had returned to the flat, and had since washed up, but Sherlock had refused. He hadn't had any on his medicine either, and John was beginning to tire of seeing his friend in pain.

Sherlock didn't move for a few seconds, before he opened his eyes with a slight "Hmm?" John notice he was squinting slightly in the light of the room, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness behind his hand. "Do you want a painkiller?" he repeated, calmly.

"No" Sherlock said slowly shutting his eyes again and draping his arm back over his face.

"But it will help your head…and your leg"

"No, John. It will not help my head!" Sherlock spat, sitting sharply from the sofa and his face twisting in pain for the merest fraction of a second. "They will slow my brain; muddle the answers!" he paused for a second, drawing in a breath. When he spoke again he has calmer and his voice quieter. "It's like adding water to petrol; it doesn't work" he explained.

"Having a drum pounding in your brain can't help much either." Pointed John, as he sat down in his chair, reaching underneath for his laptop and flipping open the lid. He couldn't blame Sherlock though; concussions were difficult things to deal with, twisting people's emotion and muddling their brain. He knew Sherlock hated the sticky slowness of his mind and it was true that the medication would slow it further, although that really was the point.

The laptop pinged to life and John put in his password, watching his friend as the laptop warmed up. Sherlock was lying down again but was now curled on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest. His breathing was shallower and faster than normal but not worryingly so. He would sigh every so often, and John presumed he was either asleep or getting there.

The laptop screen loaded to show his blog still open from when he had shut the lid earlier that day. Scrolling down he noticed eight new comments, all of them posted in the two hors he had been away with Sherlock at the crime scene. He clicked on the link, expanding the entry and showing the comments.

_The One-Man-Job_

_Well, this is a note of apology in advance because, as you can tell from the title, this last case was a 'one-man-job', meaning that I was not allowed to be involved in any way shape or form. So anyway, for the past four days Sherlock has been investigating a criminal who simply breaks into office-blocks in the dead of night just to upturn the room. And when I say 'upturn' I mean upturn. I have seen only the photo of the first office but it was really strange. Somehow someone had broken into the office and glued everything to the celling without being caught on camera, as I said strange. Two more offices were broken into before Sherlock got a lead. He suddenly ran from the flat yesterday on a 'one-man-job'. I don't actually know what happened on this 'one-man-job', so don't ask. Later that afternoon I got a call from Sherlock's brother saying he had been run over (Sherlock – not his brother). He's fine, by the way, just some bruises. So I don't know what will happen with the case._

_I'll update again when I know more. _

That's really weird! But he doesn't know who it was?

**Harry Watson**** – **20 March 16:04

Did he chase a suspect into a road or something? That wouldn't be the first time! Still, tell him to get fixed up soon, I don't want another murder on my hands.

**Greg Lestrade **– 20 March 16:37

The Freak deleted how to cross the roads! Idiot!

**Sally Donavon **– 20 March 16:42

For your information, Sally, it is impossible to 'delete' how to cross a road, it is instinct. However, you seem to have deleted the skill of time keeping. Did you like spending your evening in that cupboard?

**Sherlock Holmes **- 20 March 16:49

Why do you insist on being so careless with yourself? I am still waiting for my chance to with meet you.

**Anonymous **– 20 March 16:52

You had me worried silly John, running out of the flat like that. By the way, John, is he any better today than yesterday? He seemed so ill with his concussion and all that medication for his broken leg, Poor Dear.

**Mrs Hudson **– 16:59

Do shut up Mrs Hudson, I do not appreciate you sharing me medical information with the world. Also, my leg is not broken. Please get your facts right before you comment.

**Sherlock Holmes **– 17:02

Sherlock was run over? Is he okay?

**Molly Hooper** – 20 March 17:16

John read the comments with a sigh. Why did Sally always have to make comments like that? Sherlock always just replied to them in some sort of offensive way. Anonymous' comments puzzled him too but as Sherlock had no idea who it was either they had decided it was best to ignore it for now. With a sigh he clicked on the 'Add comment' button:

_Sorry Harry, he hasn't spoken about it so I don't know. He did run into the road, Greg, but I don't know why, presides he is already solving your case. And Molly, he's fine. Just a cut on his head and a bruised leg for his stupidity. Oh, and I'm sorry you were worried Mrs Hudson but I was worried too, he is feeling better though, as you may have found out already. Don't be rude Sherlock._

**John Watson**___– 20 March 18:04 _

John stared at the comments again, wondering again what had happened to Sally Donavon last night. All he now knew was it was to do with a cupboard and timing. When there was no reply to his comment he shut the laptop again before replacing it under the chair for safe keeping. Sherlock appeared asleep so was unlikely to steel his things but the gesture was more out of habit. There was nothing to do in the flat now, John being reluctant to put on the telly and risk waking his friend. Normally in-between cases he had to stop Sherlock from blowing their kitchen up or go to work or tidy up the mess from previous experiments. Now there was nothing.


	8. Scrambled Brains

**Chapter 8: **

**Scrambled Brain**

It was nearly dark when Sherlock woke, and the room glowed orange through his closed eyelids. The tapping of keys continued across the room so it was unlikely John yet knew he was awake. The clicking continued but Sherlock tried to tune it out, wanting nothing more than to return to sleep and free himself from the pounding still adamantly within his head. Eventually he groaned and rolled over, just as John's stomach grumbled angrily. The typing stopped, and from the creaking of the chair, Sherlock could tell John had just looked up.

"Does your head still hurt?" asked John from his chair, his voice loud in the quiet room. Sherlock didn't bother to reply, letting the room fill with the whirring of the laptop and the ticking of the clock. John sighed but shut the lid on his laptop and got to his feet. He paused for a second before speaking, watching his friend and trying to gage his level of consciousness.

"I was about to make dinner. I don't suppose I can get you any?" he asked, the last comment half filled with sarcasm and half with the hope that perhaps Sherlock would want dinner that night. There was a moment of silence then Sherlock spoke, his voice cracking with un-use and his eyes still shut.

"What's the time?"

John started, unused to being asked such trivial questions by the great detective. "Uh, about quarter to eight. You've been asleep for nearly two hours" he added.

"'m not an idiot?" Sherlock complained, his voice a mumble as he pushed himself into a sitting position, a hand held to his head. "And dinner would be good"

John raised his eyebrows at his friend's acceptance of food but turned to the kitchen in silence and opened the freezer; taking out what he hoped was Spaghetti Bolognaise.

Twenty minutes later he had dinner served and Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, sitting down at the table with his eyes already drooping. He ate his pasta, which was good for him, though John realised that spaghetti was probably not the easiest food to be eating when tired. He knew he needed to ask Sherlock about the accident, but he hadn't really found a good time to ask. Now wouldn't be good either, what with Sherlock half asleep.

"So what did happen with Sally last night?" he asked, both curious and trying to wake his friend with an interesting topic of conversation. Sherlock sat up slightly at that and gave half smug, half sleepy, grin.

"Last night sally went to pay Anderson a little visit and they had such a good time that they forgot his wife was coming home that night. Sally spent three hours hiding in the airing cupboard." he explained, the humour somewhat lost in the dullness of his tone.

John laughed. "Oh, no wonder she seemed annoyed with you!" Anderson was an idiot, as Sherlock often pointed out. Sally, as much as he disliked her, was not stupid, although maybe Sherlock was right and the idiot really did lower the IQ of those around him.

After dinner Sherlock took himself back to the sofa and John carried the plates back to the kitchen. He tipped the half portion of past that his friend had left into the bin and left the plates on the side. When he returned to the lounge he found Sherlock asleep again, this time curled up on his side facing the room. Hair was dangling sideways across his forehead and one hand rested under his chin. John smiled fondly as he pulled a book from the shelf and settled back down in his chair.

Sherlock was woken some time later by a tapping on his shoulder. He tried to roll over but his leg protested, renewing the ache in his body. He groaned slightly and raised a hand to rub his eyes, finally opening them to see John standing beside him and the lights dimmed. Slowly he inched himself up, swinging his legs around and accepting the glass of water John offered him. He sipped it gently, letting it moisten his dry throat.

"Here" said John, tipping three pills into Sherlock's hand. The detective huffed at the pills, letting his fist close around them and his eyes drift back shut. He was tired, which was silly really, considering the amount of time he had spent asleep in the past three days.

"Come on" insisted John, gently shaking his friend's shoulder to rouse him again. "Just take the pills and then you can sleep" Sherlock gave a glare but put all three tablets in his mouth at once, washing then down with the last of the water. John let him lay back down after that and his eyes were shut before his head had even settled on the cushion.

Sherlock was sitting up when John entered the living room the next morning, his curls messy and flattened from sleep. He had a blanket draped around his shoulders, and John noticed it was the one that he had settled over his friend the night before. Sherlock didn't look up when he entered the room, his eyes remaining unfocused as he stared towards the skull on the fireplace.

"This is ridiculous." He snapped suddenly as John crossed the room, his hands now rifling through his hair and freeing the flattened curls.

John turned in the kitchen doorway, his head leaning to one side in question, "What?"

"I can't think!" Sherlock exclaimed, sounding both annoyed and distressed. His hands left his hair with a rather aggressive pull and fell to his lap, the left one rising again almost instantly to rub at the reddened cut on his forehead. "My brain is scrambled" he moaned.

"Would you like that on toast?" John asked innocently, ignoring the glare he got in return.

"I might as well hand in my resignation to Lestrade" he continued grumpily, his voice depressed.

"You are aware that he doesn't actually employ you?" questioned John as he turned to put the kettle on. He waited, only hearing a mumble in return before continuing. "Presides, you're being a drama queen; it'll pass in a few days and then you can get back to annoying the Force on top form."

Sherlock groaned again in the other room flopped onto his back. John smiled at his friend's antics; he was such a child. The kettle pinged behind him and he poured two coffees; one black, two sugars, and the other with just milk. He carried them through to the lounge, sliding Sherlock's legs to the side and sitting down on the sofa in their place. The detective pushed himself into a sitting position without complaint and accepted the coffee, sipping gently with his eyes shut.

"I can't work it out" he said eventually, sounding dejected. John looked over. Sherlock's eyes were open again, but had returned to staring over at the fireplace and at the skull that sat there. He still looked tired, and his skin was pale from days of not eating but he looked much better than the day before despite the distress in his expression.

"You've only had one victim so far" he started comfortingly, his mind instantly turning to the case at hand.

"Not that" Sherlock interrupted as he slammed his mug down on the table "The accident. I've watched it through and there is something I miss every time." he hissed angrily as he turned to face his friend.

"There wouldn't be anything to miss if you hadn't been such an idiot and ran into the road in the first place" John exclaimed, suddenly as angry as his friend. He was tired; the sleepless nights with Sherlock were catching up with him.

Sherlock's eyes widened momentarily before they narrowed indignantly. "I'm not an idiot!" he hissed, pushing himself to his feet, his weight balanced on his good leg. "That car shouldn't have hit, that much I know. A driver would break if they saw a person in the road, and at that distance the car should have stopped." He turned back to the sofa, his frustrated hands in his hair again. "I don't know why though!"

"Well, to kill you would be the obvious answer" John suggested, still sat on the sofa with his hands around his mug. Sherlock shook his head "Him, a killer?" he huffed, his tone still aggressive. He turned to pace but nearly fell, catching himself on the coffee table just in time.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself further" huffed John, nodding towards the sofa. Sherlock appeared to think about it for a second before he sat, looking as though he wished he could curl up in a ball and sulk. "Look, just forget about it. For now at least." He said calmly, resting a comforting hand on his friends arm. They fell quiet and slowly Sherlock relaxed, the tension leaving his body and his eyes drifting shut.

"You have work today?" asked Sherlock, breaking the silence and opening his eyes. John 'hhmm'ed in conformation and swallowed his coffee. "I'll be back about five but it'll do you good to get a day of rest" he said, flicking up his sleeve and glancing down at his watch. He sighed and stood, taking his empty mugs to the kitchen and returning with a cereal bar and an apple to eat on the tube. He fetched his coat from the chair he had left it on the night before and stuffed his phone in the pocket.

"Don't do anything stupid whilst I'm gone" he added, ignoring Sherlock's dismissive grunt as he closed the door behind him.


	9. Emotions At Crime Scenes

**Chapter 9:**

**Emotions at crime Scenes **

Sherlock arrived at the crime scene just before lunch, having received the call from Lestrade barely an hour before. It had taken him longer than usual to leave the flat, as even walking was so much slower than normal. Lestrade was waiting for him outside the hotel when he arrived and held the crutches whilst he scrambled from the cab.

"Where's the coat?" he asked, surprised to see the detective without his customary coat for a second day in a row during the cold weather. Presides his violin, the coat was the one thing that he had seen stay with Sherlock since they had met five years before, and even then he had knew it meant a lot to the man. Sherlock ignored the question and started towards the entrance of the hotel, his eyes fixed ahead of him. Lestrade sighed and followed his consultant towards the building.

The entrance hall of the hotel was nearly empty as the two men headed towards the lift, Sherlock's crutches clicking on the marble floor. It was a posh hotel, just as the last one was, with a chandelier hanging from the high ceiling and a grand reception desk with a shining brass bell on its polished surface. The man behind the desk was dressed in red and looked up as they entered. His eyes followed them across the room, his posture tense despite his neutral expression.

"So, where's John?" asked Lestrade as the lift whirred into motion. Sherlock sighed and muttered "Work" dramatically as he leant back against the wall to take the weight from his hands. Lestrade nodded. "Thought you might have pissed him off or something" he admitted, "I mean you can't be the easiest patient to look after"

"I am perfectly capable of looking after myself" Sherlock snapped as he pushed himself away from the wall mere seconds before the doors of the lift opened with a ping to reveal a young officer standing in front of the yellow police tape that spanned the width of the hallway. He untied it hurriedly and stood to the side, bobbing his head at Lestrade as he passed. Sherlock followed, noticing how the boy's eyes widened in awe as he passed.

Lestrade sighed at the boy. "I swear they keep getting younger. Either that or I'm just getting older" he added after a moment's thought. Sherlock chuckled quietly under his breath as they turned into room 459.

Sally looked up as they entered and shook her head slightly. "Oh, great! Freak's here!" She exclaimed sarcastically, earning a snigger from Anderson who was dusting the bedside table for fingerprints and another officer who stood in a corner. "I'm not sure why though 'cause he obviously doesn't care about the victims. Just gaining knowledge for a murder spree of his own is my guess. Of course, I'd say this was his but the idiot can't even work out how to cross roa-"

"Shut it, Donovan" snarled Lestrade, earning himself a chuckle from the sergeant as she left the room. "It would help if you stop winding everyone up too" he snapped, turning to look at his consultant.

"I wouldn't annoy them if they weren't so infuriatingly annoying to me" Responded Sherlock bluntly as he surveyed the room.

"I think we can hardly call it 'annoying' them!" muttered Lestrade under his breath.

The room looked just the same as any other high-class hotel room would, bar the body on the bed, that was. The body, just as the time before was stripped, with a clean cut along its throat. It was a lady this time, with long brown hair arranged neatly behind her head. She looked peaceful in death, her pale eyelids shut and hands rested on her bare stomach as if she were asleep.

"What have you got on her?" asked Sherlock, glancing back to Lestrade.

"Nothing, yet" he replied, "Nor the other man for that matter. We've checked his DNA and fingerprints but there is nothing in the system that matches. We were kind of hoping you could shed some light on that for us."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Well, they both have high powered office jobs, both very well-off. Work for a secretive company probably as there are no records and neither of their disappearances were reported. Both times the murderer felt remorse for his actions, so this isn't someone killing for fun. They probably knew more than they should about something they shouldn't have so needed to be silenced. I would have said an assassin or someone in that type of business but there is too much remorse for the person to be hired so probably just a murderer with experience in handling a knife."

"What about their families?" asked Lestrade, looking up from the notes he had been making.

"Not important, too different to be related to the case. He lived alone presides the housekeeper, cared only for his work and the money. She on the other hand has a partner, two cats, and was soon to inform her partner of her pregnancy."

"She's pregnant" repeated Lestrade slowly, his gaze drifting to the lady on the bed and the hands that rested on her stomach.

"That's what I said" Sherlock confirmed, limping forwards to examine the cut on the lady's throat. "Different weapon, this one is smaller, same type though; they were probably from his kitchen." After a second he stood straight and looked around the room, still unaware of the sudden silence in the room. "There's nothing else of importance here" he said, ignoring the glares of the officers as he turned to leave.

Lestrade watched as his consultant left. Still oblivious to the silence his deductions had left on the room. It was just like him to be unaffected by the victims pregnancy but many of the officers in the room, himself included, were parents and the thought of his wife being murdered along with his baby before he had even been told of its existence was not a nice feeling. He was shocked from his thoughts by a clattering and a thud from the hall followed by a pained hiss. Running to the corridor he found Sherlock on the floor on his hands of knees, his gaze fixed intently on the carpet.

"Need any help?" he asked thinking the detective had fallen.

"I didn't fall. The bodies were brought here on a trolley, one similar to a cleaner's." Sherlock stated, still not looking round at the inspector.

"Explain" sighed Lestrade, kneeling down and ignoring the 'Stop-being-an-idiot' glare the detective sent his way.

"The tracks in the carpet are from a cleaner's laundry trolley but there are two sets not one. The first go to the room directly and into the room, staying less that quarter of an hour, judging by the tracks. That cart only came to this room so not for cleaning and what other reason would you have for coming up here?"

"I thought you said it _wasn't_ the cleaners" demanded Lestrade, sounding exasperated.

"It wasn't the cleaner" replied Sherlock, sounding equally annoyed. "It was somebody posing as a cleaner"

"How do you know the trolley marks aren't here from when the real cleaner came and found the body?"

"The second set of tracks were by the real cleaner. See how they go into each room and then stop here. Someone took the trolley away afterwards." He mused quietly.

"It wasn't here when we arrived and we told the hotel not to touch the scene. Are you sure she didn't just take it with her?"

"She had just discovered a body. It's highly unlikely that she would take the trolley with her when she ran for help" scorned Sherlock.

"Okay, stupid question"

"They normally are" Mumbled the detective, earning himself a glare and a sigh from Lestrade.

"So who took the second trolley?" asked the inspector after a moment's silence. Sherlock shook his head in reply as he heaved himself to his feet, leaning on the wall to regain his balance. "I don't know" he was silent for a second then he looked up, his eyes scanning the ceiling until they found what they wanted.

"Have you seen the CCTV footage?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his gaze flicking back to Lestrade.

"Not yet, I'll get someone onto it" he replied thoughtfully. "Oh, and I did look into food deliveries and there was one two mornings before the body was discovered, which makes the timing about right since the body had been dead about two days before we found it." Sherlock nodded and pushed himself away from the wall, starting down the corridor, his expression distant. Lestrade followed, not wanting to leave his consultant alone in his distracted and battered state.

"That makes it worse, doesn't it, her being pregnant?" asked Sherlock quietly, his voice filled with genuine curiosity as they passed through the near silent entrance hall. Lestrade startled, his head turning sharply towards the other man. "It does" he confirmed, his voice surprised. He hadn't expected Sherlock to have been thinking about that, nor to have picked up on the meaning of the shocked silence in the room when he had made his deduction.

"Because more than one person died?" Sherlock said, his tone somewhere between question and acknowledgement.

"Mm, and because a baby is the start of new life, a truly innocent being who's life ended before it even began" Sighed Lestrade as he led the way passed the now empty reception desk. "You probably don't understand it though, being a psychopath and all."

"Sociopath" corrected Sherlock absentmindedly, "But I think I do. It's like when someone takes the evidence to a new case before I even get the chance to look at it." Lestrade looked over at his friend, noting the way his brow was furrowed in concentration. He was trying hard to understand, which with Sherlock, was the best he could ever have hoped for. Maybe the great man was taking a step in the good direction.

"Do you know, I think that doctor fellow of yours is doing you some good" Lestrade said as he held the door open for his consultant. It was cold outside the hotel. A bitter March breeze had picked up and grey drizzle was falling from the sky. The cool air whistled angrily and Lestrade pulled his coat tighter around himself but Sherlock didn't react, too caught up in his own thoughts to notice.

Sherlock was relieved when the cab pulled up outside Baker Street half an hour later. His head was pounding again and all he now wanted was a cup of tea and a sleep. His leg was cramping too, from both the cold, cramped environment and the heavy way he had dropped to his knees in the hallway of the hotel. At the time it had seamed the fastest way to examine the floor, but now he was seriously regretting it.

He paid the cabdriver and brushed off the kind man's concerns, rummaging in his jacket pocket for the key. The pockets were small, and with his phone and his wallet, anything else was a tight fit. He let himself into the empty house, realising then there was nobody home. John was still at work as it was still only two in the afternoon and Mrs Hudson was out somewhere or another. That left only the skull to talk to. Secretly Sherlock still enjoyed his conversations with the Skull that he had kept since his late teens, much to the horror of his roommates at university, but the Skull was still not a patch on John. Admittedly, the Skull had his advantages, never asked stupid question for one, whereas John did, but then the Skull never replied to _his_ questions and simply wasn't _John_. Sherlock was still musing this when he pushed open the unlocked door to the flat.

"You'll catch cold if you go out like that" said a voice from John's chair, startling Sherlock nearly out of his skin. He relaxed almost instantly, noticing the umbrella that stuck out from behind the chair.

"Oh, go away, Mycroft." Mumbled Sherlock as he crossed the room and sank onto his chair, propping one elbow on the arm and slumping over to lean his head in his palm.

"Getting slow in your old age, Sherlock, or has that knock to your head affected you more than I thought it would?" asked the man casually, his eves flicking to the stitched and bruised skin of the detectives forehead. Sherlock ignored the question, letting out I near silent sigh.

"So, why do you feel the need to infuriate me with your political ways? I already have a headache you know" Sherlock groaned, watched his brother from the corner of his eyes.

"Oh, come now Sherlock, don't be dramatic. I only came to ask you how you were getting along with my little filing problem," he assured, his eyebrows raised

"Now who is being dramatic? You lost some papers from your office, there's no mystery to that. Looks like you're the one to become scatty in your old age." Sherlock retorted, trying to ignore the beating drum was slowly becoming more apparent in his brain.

"We both know that I am not becoming senile, Sherlock" Mycroft sighed spinning his umbrella slowly, its tip making a faint scratching on the wooden floor.

"It looks that way. Does your forehead become larger every time I see you nowadays?" Asked the younger brother tiredly, the fire fading from his voice.

"Hmm, resorting to petty comments about my receding hairline, brother dearest? Looks like that hit to your head _was_ harder than I thought." Countered Mycroft, now sounding concerned.

"Go start a war or something" grumbled the detective, leaning his head back on the chair. He was tired again, and his head was pounding. All he wanted to do was sleep, yet Mycroft was here, probably only out of his own annoyingness.

"Stop be childish" The eldest Holmes reprimanded quietly, watching as his brother gazed back sleepily, his eyes clouded with the pounding in his head. After a second he pushed himself to his feet. "Just look into it" said, and left the flat without another word.


	10. Third Time Lucky

**Chapter 10:**

**Third time lucky**

It was only the next day when Lestrade called Sherlock about another murder. John had the day off work so both men were lazing round the flat, John reading and Sherlock on his laptop, when the call came. The detective had been researching the case on the laptop, having had no time the night before as John had sent him to bed after finding him asleep and pained in his chair when he had returned from work. Sherlock was glad to have gotten the call though, because just as Lestrade had said, there was very no information to be found out about the murder victims or their mysterious jobs. He had decided that the two people must have worked at the same place, but other than the conclusion that it was a high-powered and secretive office, they knew nothing. John had seen the first crime scene himself and had been told a lot about the second one by Sherlock that morning so knew as soon as the cab pulled up outside a grand hotel that the third would be almost identical to the others.

Lestrade was leaning against the wall in the hallway when the lift door opened with a 'ding'. He had his arms crossed and his brow was furrowed in annoyance. "What on earth took you two so long?" he asked, the frustration clear in his voice and the way he pushed himself off the wall. He didn't wait for an answer, merely turning and storming down the corridor, clearly wanting Sherlock and John to follow him.

"We found the trolley, from the last case" he told Sherlock as they walked, not waiting for a reply before carrying on. "It was in a room further along the corridor covered in blood. It's the victim's, DNA checks out."

"Did you see who moved it?"

"If you are talking about the CCTV then no; the tape showed nothing."

"It's blank?" Asked Sherlock, although the works came out as more of a hiss of annoyance.

"Not really" explained Lestrade, "The tape shows us nothing until the cleaner comes to the room. She leaves her trolley in the hall and goes into the room, then she runs out again and down the corridor leaving the trolley behind. About three minutes later it vanishes."

"Vanishes?" asked John, confused.

"Someone has been messing with the tape, putting in pre-recorded clips to make it appear as though they haven't been there."

"What so just like on the case with the upturned offices?" suggested John, looking at Lestrade who nods.

"That was my thought, yes"

"It's not related. Just coincidence" insisted Sherlock, rolling his eye when Lestrade made to argue. "That case was unimportant, just some fool messing with me. This is different. The murderer felt he needed these people dead, he didn't do it out of fun".

"Ideas just catch on then" Sighed Lestrade, ending the conversation with a shrug.

The chosen room was in the middle of the corridor this time and faced out onto the road however, as Sherlock pointed out by calling them all idiots, had nothing of importance to do with the case. Again the room was posh and finely furnished with a naked body on the bed, the only sign of damage the single slit across the throat. Sherlock scanned the room slowly, looking for anything new. There must have been nothing as he almost instantly turned back to Lestrade.

"Nothing new. It's pointless being here." He said, clearly annoyed at this lack of evidence.

"I know, but if there is it'll be you that finds it" Lestrade replied, pausing in thought before speaking again. "There's not much point dusting for fingerprints either; they'll just come back inconclusive like the rest."

"Don't even bother. They were posing as a cleaner; they would have been wearing gloves" Sherlock huffed, turning back to the body. It was another male, this time with dirty blond hair that was thinning along his fringe. "Mid fifty's, lives with elderly wife, two grown up sons, grandchildren, probably quite young which would explain the hamster" He looked around again with a sigh. "Different knife again but the same set, smallish knife, doesn't want to reuse the weapons so throws them away, probably into the Thames. The victim wasn't cleaned as toughly as the other's so the murder was rushed and brought here quickly. There is signs of a beating too, but the victim was killed too soon to leave bruises. The murderer wants something from them. Desperately. But …"

There was a pause as he trailed off, looking up into the corner of the room, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Suddenly he twirled round, his eyes fixing on Lestrade. "Was there much blood on the trolley? Enough to be visible from a distance?"

"Yes, an obvious amount" answered Lestrade, watching the detective closely. Sherlock nodded and turned back around, a hand weaving through his hair. He was restless, looking as though he wanted to pace, with his other hand drumming on the crutch handle and the un-used one leaning against the bed.

"It was the murderer that took the trolley" he stated with a slight grin as he turned. "The murder was more rushed than normal and he put up a fight. When the body was taken to the room it hadn't been properly cleaned and so the blood got onto the sheets of the trolley. The murderer waited in the next room until the cleaner came and stole her trolley after she ran to fetch help, leaving their trolley behind."

"Why take the trolley though, why not just leave without one?" John asked quietly from beside Lestrade.

"Ugh, disguise, John." He groaned, blinking heavily as he reached for the crutch that still rested on the bed. There was a slight pause and then the detective started towards the door, pausing only to roll his eyes and drone a sarcastic "Can I leave the rest to you and your incompetent crew?" to Lestrade on his way.

Lestrade sighed, frowning at his consultant's sudden exit as he watched the detective leave the room, closely followed by a rather apologetic looking John. He was used to Sherlock being abrupt, rude, arrogant, but never had he seen him act in such a defeated manor, his usual fiery spirit all but gone. At first he had blamed the strange behaviour on the accident, but after more thought he realised that couldn't be right. He had taken a concussed Sherlock home before, many times, and stayed with him the night. He had seen him laid up in hospital with pneumonia and sprawled against an alley wall with a jagged hole in his stomach. Even the first time he had met the detective he has been convulsing in an abandoned house due to an overdose, and the next few times he had been in the whelms of withdrawal. But never before had he seen him so confused and uncertain and utterly unwilling to stay at the crime scene despite how boring he found it. It was a stupid, insignificant observation but it bothered him, because although nobody else had noticed, he knew there was something bothering Sherlock Holmes.

The reception was nearly empty when Sherlock and John walked through, with only an elderly couple sitting in armchairs around a blazing fire. A girl sat behind the reception desk, her blue suit neat and her hair almost perfect with hairspray. She jumped when a shrill ringing erupted from her desk and Sherlock ground to a halt.

"Hello, Whitefield Hotel, how may I help?" asked the young receptionist as she answered the phone. "Um, sorry, I don't know, would you like me to ask someone or-… Oh, okay, that's fine, Have a good day" She put down the phone, looking slightly confused and swivelled back to her computer. Sherlock stared for a moment, his brain working on overdrive.

"Oh, Stupid, Stupid!" he hissed eventually as he swivelled around and marched towards the desk his pointed shoe and crutches making no noise on the rich carpet. The girl looked up as he approached, her eyes widening at his mechanically imposing form.

"How may I help?" she asked as he stopped before her desk, her voice strong yet shy.

"Were you the receptionist who worked here yesterday?" Sherlock demanded, not seaming to notice the way the girl's teeth closed over her lip as he spoke. She opened her mouth to reply but shut it again, her lip still clamped between her teeth as she gave a shaky nod.

"It was your first day, yes?"

The girl nodded again, her brown eyes fixed on the man leaning over her.

"And you gave the keys of the room to the cleaner, didn't you?"

"Yes, she said she had left her set at home!" explained the girl, her voice high with worry.

"Thankyou, you have been most helpful" Sherlock replied, suddenly smiling at the girl in a way which looked more eerie than friendly. She forced a smile back, but with her eyes still wide with fear, she looked a little less than happy. The detective pushed himself back from the desk and hurried towards the exit, calling "Hurry up, John" over his shoulder when he realised the doctor was still standing where he had been left, muttering a hurried apology to the girl who stood behind the desk.

"The cleaners have just been asking the receptionists for keys?" asked John suddenly, breaking the silence in the taxi on their way back to Baker Street. Sherlock had rested his head back against the seat, his eyes closed and a grin on his lips, when they had entered the taxi and had stayed that way since. His phone was resting in his hands and every so often he would send off a text, his eyes still closed as his fingers flew over the tiny keys. He received a text once too, but even he could not read with his eyes still shut.

"Hmm?" he asked after a moment's delay, John's question only just registering in his hurried mind. John sighed across the cab but repeated his question, leaning forwards as to get a better look at the detective's expression. Sherlock grinned slightly but his eyes remained closed and he didn't move.

"Hit it in one, John" he replied, his voice sounding distant. "A new receptionist with no experience, of course a cleaner would look so innocent to them" He huffed in amusement, bringing a hand to his head. "Why are they all such idiots, John?" he asked, sounding exasperated. John smiled as he leant back in his seat, shaking his head at his friend's annoyance.

Not a minute later a near silent buzzing vibrated from Sherlock's lap and the screen of the phone glowed up as a message can through. Sherlock's hand tightened around the phone and he picked it up holding it out for John to read.

"It's Lestrade" Supplied John, glancing up at his friend who grinned, holding out his phone for John to take with his eyes still closed.

"Have you got a headache?" asked John curiously as he took the phone and opened the text. Sherlock grunted in reply and ruffled his nose up in a disgusted expression. The corners of his mouth curled into a semi-sympathetic smile but it faded to confusion when he read the text.

"It says 'The dates check out, seams you were right after all'. That makes sense to you, I suppose?" John looked up after moment to see a grin growing on his friend's lips. "Brilliant" he hissed happily, finally opening his eyes and sitting forwards.

"Explain, then"

"Well, as you said, the hotel is picked because it has a new receptionist working that day and also –as Lestrade just confirmed- a food delivery that morning. The body is snuck inside with the food, don't look disgusted John, probably by someone disguised as part of the team, and left in the clean laundry trolley. The cleaner then asks for the room keys at reception, fetches the clean laundry trolley and takes it up to the room.

"The CCTV is harder though, it's planned, the bodies just appear. Someone must be doing it from higher up, either that or…" he trailed off, leaning back in his seat, his gaze drifting off into the distance. John sighed but sat back too, knowing he wouldn't get anything else out of his friend until he had solved the puzzle that was currently running through his mind. He physically jumped when Sherlock's forgotten phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down at the caller Id.

"Mycroft" he stated, turning to Sherlock who had looked round at the sound of the buzzing. He snatched the phone away and hit the red button, ending the call midway through its third ring. A text came through almost instantly, and the detective opened it, his eyes only following the writing for a second before he sighed and turned off the screen. "Interfering git" he muttered, stuffing the phone back into his blazer pocket. John rolled his eyes and turned back to the window, his mind wandering from the case and Mycroft, to the warm, comfy sitting room in Baker Street.


	11. Home Truths

**Chapter 11**

**Home Truths**

Sherlock sat on the sofa, the case files spread around the desk. He was bored, bored and frustrated. He had asked John to bring him a cup of tea around an hour ago but there had been no reply. When John hadn't replied to his second request for tea Sherlock had bothered to look up from his files, noticing then that John's jacket was gone from his chair where it had been left the day before. John was out then, probably at work. Sherlock had given John his opinion on this matter, suggesting that he left his mind-numbing job at the surgery and spent all his time solving cases. For some unknown reason this statement had annoyed John, and he had sighed and slammed the door on his way to work, not bothering to explain his opinion on the matter.

So now Sherlock was alone in the flat, still sat on the sofa, surrounded by case files and getting nowhere. He knew the victims all knew their killer and worked at an office, probably somewhere important as they were not on police records. He knew how the murders were committed too, and that they were done because the murderer needed something from the victims. The CCTV was what confused him most though, how could someone get into the security section of the higher end London Hotels. IT had happened in three of them too, and none of them were connected, he had checked that when he had returned from the third crime scene with John yesterday.

He closed his eyes, flipping himself round so that he was lying on the sofa, his hands steepled on his chest. His head had started to hurt again, probably from lack of sleep more than anything, but he had to retain himself from rubbing it as doing so would risk pulling the stitches from the tender cut on his forehead. Slowly he breathed out, trying to calm himself and focus his knowledge. What did he know? For one he knew the killer was an office worker, and worked with his victims. He was respectful so didn't want to kill them for revenge. The bodies were taken to the hotels in the food truck and taken up to the rooms by a fake-

Sherlock was startled from his thoughts by a sudden tapping on the open lounge door. Frowning, he pushed himself up on his elbow, wondering how on earth he had missed the footsteps on the stairs. There was a mottled figure behind the doorway. With a groan he flopped back down and threw an arm over his eyes, waiting for the door to open.

"The idea of knocking is to wait for a reply" he announced quietly as the handle clicked and the figure entered, their hard soled shoes tapping on the wooden floor. The person made no acknowledgement that they had heard and continued across the room, finally sitting down in John's chair and crossing one leg over the other.

"It's not as though you would give one though, is it?" replied Mycroft, his voice hard despite the obvious effort he was putting in to keep it straight. Sherlock frowned; he hadn't heard his brother's voice with such an effort in so many years. Something was bothering him, that much was obvious. It couldn't have been work related tough, so not the missing papers as he had first though; Mycroft had taken to running the British government from inside before he was barely old enough to drink. It had to be people related then, and seeing that Mycroft didn't have friends either, so it had to be family. Mummy was dead, and had been for some time, Father was, well Sherlock didn't know of care what his father was doing and had no intentions of finding out. Mycroft kept track of Father, he had to really, but it wasn't as if he remotely cared about him.

The meant there was only one person left for Mycroft to be concerned about, and that was Sherlock himself. Mycroft had been worried for him when he was a child and again when he had some home from university to see the mess that had become of his younger brother. But this was different, he was safe, and…

Sherlock pulled his arm back from his eyes and pushed himself upright, finally catching sight of his brother's appearance. He was wearing a suit, but it was ruffled and the knot of his tie was roughly done. His hand was perfectly steady but he grasped the handle of him umbrella tight in the way a lost child might cling to its bear. His skin was pale too, and from his lack of belly, Sherlock could tell he hadn't eaten and barely slept. Confused, Sherlock studied his brother's expression, trying to remember where he had seen it before. It took him a moment to place it, and let the realisation sink in that his brother looked _guilty_.

"What have you done?" he asked darkly, swinging his legs around to sit normally. Mycroft's head snapped up, but he paused before speaking. "What makes you think I've done anything?" His voice was surprisingly calm and he forced his eyebrows up as spoke as if surprised by his younger sibling's question.

"Need I explain? Really Mycroft, Why not just admit it? You're guilty of something, not that you need reminding, I'm sure. It's been on your mind for days judging by the visible kink in your belt where it would normal fasten up."

"Must you bring my eating habits into every topic of conversation, little brother?" asked Mycroft dryly, continuing only at the glare he received from across the room. "And whatever crime it is that you deduced I had committed you should forget. I simply came to inform you about the traffic incident in which you were involved"

"The accident?" he asked, frowning in confusion for it was not a topic he had even considered. He hadn't spared the accident much thought either that day, concentrating on the murder case for Lestrade and the victims that he still had no identity for.

"Not quite the accident that it was originally thought to be" Mycroft's eyes flickered across the room, resting for only a second on the crutches that lay rested against the table. Sherlock's eyes followed his brother's gaze and he lifted his hand to rub his aching head as if on instinct.

"Quite" commented Mycroft, watching his sibling's actions closely. "It wasn't an accident though; as I'm sure you had previously worked out." He raised his eyebrows at the grunt his brother gave with a roll of his eyes. "Well, head injuries were never good for your intellect"

"Do get on with what you were saying" snapped Sherlock, his voice coming out as a hiss as his anger rose. Mycroft didn't reply instantly. Narrowing his eyes at his sibling as if in though. "We looked back at the CCTV footage for the accident and, well, it wasn't an accident at all." He said, "Although you probably already knew that."

"You knew" Sherlock had suspected that his brother was aware of him hacking his account, but to have it confirmed was just annoying. He glared up at his brother.

"There is a reason why you find it so simple to access government files, Sherlock" Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he spoke but his voice remained calm. "We're moving away from the topic though" He announced after a second, leaning back in his chair and crossing one suited leg over the other.

"My accident"

"Which was not quite the accident presumed; you see the car-"

"Sped up" Interrupted Sherlock, the pieces suddenly clicking in his mind. Mycroft nodded, his expression remaining straight.

"Quite so, Brother." Mycroft's gaze drifted away again, finally landing on the skull on the mantel. "Have you deduced the motive?" He asked eventually, his voice once again closed and tight. Sherlock frowned, both at his brother's tone and the question he had been asked. The driver of the car hadn't tried to kill him, that much was clear; the man had been worried, genuinely so. But why cause the accident in the first place then? Could it simply be a family relative of someone who he had jailed? Even so, why should that worry Mycroft?

"No, but I can tell you feel guilty about it" He replied carefully. Mycroft shifted in his seat, his hand tightening ever so slightly around the handle of his umbrella. "You're worried, and it's something to do with that _incident. _ You've seen me injured before though, so it's not the fact that I was hurt that worried you, it's _why_ I was that did. It was something to do with you, something that you feel responsible for. So now, Mycroft, Would you be as kind as to tell me why?"

Mycroft shifted in his seat and his breathing visibly hitched but he looked to be trying to regain his composure and his voice was measured and calm when he spoke. "You were, rather unknowingly, used as bait, as I understand the situation"

"Bait? Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft. I…" he trailed off, eyebrows furrowing in concentration. "This is about your papers again isn't it? That's what you mean by bait, a reason to panic you enough to leave your office?" Mycroft didn't move in his seat, flinching only slightly at his brother's suddenly demanding and livid tone.

"Which is why I want to increase your security, Sherlock. It's been proven now that I care for you and others may take advantage of that" He spoke calmly, deliberately, his voice carefully void of emotion.

"You haven't cared in years, Mycroft, only an idiot would believe that!" Sherlock huffed a laugh from the sofa, his expression disbelieving.

"However the world is full of idiots, you of all people should remember that" Said Mycroft, reminding Sherlock of what he had told his brother after his first day at school, 'They're all idiots Mycroft, even the teachers!'

"Going deeper into our childhood, really?" his voice was a hiss, "Is this meant to prove something, because I know you, Mycroft, and you stopped caring the day that you left me with _them_"

"I had no choice, Sherlock. Presides, they were your parents, our parents" his voice was dismal, as if he truly couldn't be bothered to put in the effort. "Anyway, I'm not going to argue with you, Sherlock, it's not what Mummy would have wanted." He stood slowly then turned to leave the room, his umbrella clicking on the floor as he left. Sherlock sighed and rolled over, bringing his knees up as best he could to his chest. Mycroft descended the wooden stairs quicker than he normally would have done and shut the door behind him. He didn't slam it, he was way beyond that, but there was defiantly more force behind the door than was necessary.

The seconds drifted by in silence, the only sounds being the voices of passers-by outside the window. They had stopped to talk, by the sound of it. But still his mind wired, unable to comprehend the way Mycroft had just given up before him. Never had his brother been so defeated before, and he tried to reason what it could mean. The front door opened downstairs and for a second he presumed Mycroft had returned, perhaps with back up or proof of how he cared, but the sound of the treds of the stairs told him it was just John, footsteps weary from his day at the surgery.

Sherlock didn't open his eyes when John came in, but he listened as he took of his coat, hanging it on the coat stand in the corner of the room. He went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, making himself tea when the water boiled. The water only poured once, so he had only made one mug. John was angry then, but for what reason? Eventually he came back through, sitting down in his chair.

"I bumped into Mycroft outside the flat. He looked upset, which is strange for him, don't you think?" John's head was turned away as he spoke, and despite what he had said, it was obviously not meant as a question. "But I was thinking about it, and I was wondering what could possibly upset him. There was only one person I could think of, Sherlock" He ended his little speech and the room drifted back to silence, only broken by John's occasional sip of his tea.

"He's a git anyway" Sherlock mumbled eventually, although it was barely loud enough to cross the room and muffled by the sofa. John understood though and sighed across the room.

"He's your brother, Sherlock. That must count for something?"

"Still a git" John sighed again.

"He's still your brother though, and family's important, you shouldn't try to upset them."

"That's hypocritical coming from you, how often do you actually reply to your sister's messages?" Snapped Sherlock, sitting up sharply on the sofa.

"That's different! Harry's-" John started, his anger flaring at the mention of his sister. Sherlock had no reason to bring her into the argument. He cut himself off, stopping in the middle of his sentence when he realised what he was about to say. It was true that Harry was an alcoholic, and there was no way of ignoring that, but even on his first night with Sherlock he had witnessed a drugs bust in his new home. He had never asked about it, and he had never thought he would have to.

"Harry's what, John?" Sherlock's expression had darkened further and his eyes met John's with a glare. He had seen the pause, of course he had. "It was cocaine, if that sort of thing is really so important to you. A seven per cent solution." He shuddered slightly at the memory and John felt his eyes widen. He had seen people on drugs many times before, it was unavoidable as a doctor, but the thought of Sherlock wasting his life away in a damp back alley was just _wrong_.

"You haven't asked why though, that's what most people want to know. But you're not most people are you, John? A soldier in Afghanistan, an army medic, An orphan too, technically." Sherlock had pushed himself to his feet and his voice quickened, his tone becoming lethal.

"Shut up, Sherlock" John was standing too, his voice carefully controlled. Sherlock took a step forwards, his leg barely holding.

"You've shot people, John. More than I, tortured them too, I can tell. There's not much of a choice at war but you still regret it, pushing their pain just a little too far." John didn't move, swallowing hard as his left hand curled into a fist.

"But you're back in London now, it's not where you grew up, you moved away, from your sister, firstly. She deserted you when you were small, turned to the bottle, now you're deserting her. You can't stand the fact that you're a doctor and saving people is what you do but there's nothing you can do for your own sister." He spat the last words, ending up so close to John he could hear his breathing quicken, his chest heaving.

"Will you shut up!" he demanded, his voice near a yell and his hands shoving hard against Sherlock's chest as soon as the last word had left the detective's lips. The man stumbled back, then fell, landing in a clattered heap against the coffee table. The room stilled in a second, John still with his hands hovering in front of him and Sherlock sitting on the floor, a look of shock and hurt clouding his expression. Slowly Sherlock pushed himself to his feet, wincing. John's took half a step forward but Sherlock turned away, limping from the flat and down the stairs. John stood like marble, listening as the downstairs door swung shut with a bang. John shut his eyes and ran his shaking left hand through his hair.

"Well done, John Watson" he mumbled, sinking back into his chair and resting his head in his hands.


	12. Advancements

**Chapter 12**

**Advancements**

It was nearing midnight when John heard the door open downstairs and footsteps making their way up the wooden stairs. John stood up, walking to meet Sherlock at the top of the stairs. His back clicked as he stood, protesting the movement after sitting for so long. He walked to the door, his socks making almost no noise against the wooden floor of the flat, so see Sherlock heaving himself up the last step of the stairs, his grip hard on the handrail. The detective didn't look up as he walked past, but John put out a hand as if instinctively when Sherlock nearly fell, his leg barely holding. He was limping heavily, his lower lip held between his lips to supress any sounds. His cheeks and nose glowed pink in the dim light that filtered into the hall from the lounge, and John caught a tremor running through his thin frame as he walked past. He'd been outside then, and likely for the whole time since he had left knowing Sherlock.

The sound of a door shutting echoed through the silent flat, shortly followed by the barely audible creak of Sherlock's bed. There was no thump though, so Sherlock had not simply thrown himself onto it as he usually did whenever he had bothered to clear it for a night's sleep. John frowned, not knowing what to do. He was tired and his head was beginning to hurt with trying to work out how to save his friendship. He had sat in his chair the whole day, staring numbly with a book in his hands as he tried to distract himself from his thoughts.

Reading was one of the few pleasures John had truly enjoyed during his childhood, but he had simply not had the time once he started university with both work and his studies to occupy him. By the time he had joined the army he had all but forgotten how much he enjoyed it. Since he had moved in with Sherlock reading time came in irregular clumps, probably due to the amount of time he spent running after criminals and stopping his best friend from blowing up their flat, then the time spent clearing up the flat after any experiments that he had been unable to stop.

But the book had barely moved a page the whole evening, and even what he had read John could remember nothing of it. He had made himself dinner simply for something to distract himself with and eaten it in his chair, the taste of what he had cooked barely registering in his mind. He had retired to his chair after that, only getting up again once to turn on the light when he realised just how dark it had become outside.

Slowly John turned back to the lounge, walking through to the kitchen to put the kettle on. He was tired, both emotionally and physically despite the fact he had done very little that day presides work in the morning. The argument had taken a lot out of him though, they always had. He was sure Sherlock would need the tea too, and it presented itself as a sort of peace offering to his friend.

There was no light shining from under Sherlock's door and he didn't reply when John tapped on the door. John pushed the door open anyway, the tea barely staying in the mugs with the movement, knowing full well that Sherlock would not have fallen asleep as quickly as he had been in the room. The room was in near darkness, the only light coming from Sherlock's phone that the detective held above his head as he lay on his back, the white light bleaching his face to a ghost like transparency.

He was lying on top of the covers, his long legs stretched out to the end of his bed, his ankles crossed and hanging off the end. He was still fully dressed too, his hard leather shoes still tied and his jacket still fastened. John suspected he would still be wearing his coat, had it not been destroyed. he knew he really ought to suggest to Sherlock about a new coat, but now was really not the time for such trivial matters.

Eventually, John pushed the door open fully and stepped into the room, watching as Sherlock's hardened eyes flicked up for the merest of seconds before returning to the blackberry clasped in his hands. John stood in the room, watching as Sherlock's slender fingers flew over the tiny keys with precision and listening to their tiny plastic taps in the otherwise silent room.

"Is that a peace offering?" he asked after a second, his eyes staying fixed on his phone as he spoke. John swallowed at the frosty tone of his friend. He swallowed, trying to make his suddenly dry throat moist enough to form words.

"You're right" he said eventually, pausing to notice that the tapping had stopped as well. "It isn't my business how you treat your brother, but likewise it's not anything to you what I do with my sister"

There was silence in the room before Sherlock looked up, his grey eyes glinting in the light from the door. "Is that an apology?"

"Um, more of a friendly warning to keep out of my family actually." Sherlock hummed from his bed and turned back to his phone. "I am sorry for pushing you over though, I should have controlled my temper better." There was another pause and John huffed a laugh, realising just how childish his apology had sounded, he hadnt had to say sorry for pushing since primary school.

"I'm not sorry for saying what I said, It was all true" Said Sherlock slowly a few seconds later, "And I did mean for it to hurt you when I said it, but… I…" he trailed off, his eyebrows furrowing in the light of his phone.

"Drink your peace offering, it'll get cold" suggested John with a smile, knowing that was probably the closest he was ever going to get to an apology from Sherlock Holmes. He held out the mug and Sherlock dropped his phone to the bed, pushing himself into a stilling position with a soundless wince barely visible in the low light of the room.

"You've really knocked yourself back a bit there" John added, nodding towards Sherlock's leg as his friend took the mug from his hands. Sherlock grunted in reply then sipped the mug, clutching it between his obviously cold hands.

They drank their tea in silence, the room still barely lit from the light in the lounge. John didn't turn the light on, he wasn't sure why, but Sherlock had left it off, and for that reason he felt it should stay that way. He took the mugs back to the kitchen when they were empty, only then remembering the scrap of paper he had left on the counter when he had returned home that afternoon. He had forgotten about it with the argument they had had. The paper was barely A5, torn from a rather expensive notebook by its thickness. He hadn't opened the paper since he had been given it, but then it was not his to open in the first place.

"Mycroft told me to give this to you" John said as he leant through the door to Sherlock's room and chucked the folded piece of paper onto the bed beside his friend. Sherlock's eyes snapped open again at the sound of his voice and he picked up the paper, holding it above his head and scowling when he realised it was too dark to read. John sighed and switched on the light, receiving a rather unexpected and mumbled thanks in return. Sherlock looked at the paper in his hands for a few seconds, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Then his eyes widened and he blinked before throwing himself upright and scooping his phone back off the bed.

"There is a reason why you find it so simple to access government files" he muttered quietly, remembering the words of his brother hours before as he typed, his fingers flying over the keys with an urgency John had seen before only a couple of times. John frowned, wondering what Sherlock was talking about but hesitant to ask when he was busy. He had interrupted Sherlock when he was thinking before and he knew the difference in reactions he could get. The last time he had done so was to offer dinner, which was a stupid question anyway apparently, and that had only resulted in Sherlock sulking for quite some time about the disturbance and explaining the plot of whatever was on the telly for the following week.

His mind was made up for him when Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and limped from the room, hurrying into the living room in what John suspected was a search for his laptop. He was about to follow when he noticed the white square of paper still sitting on the sheets of Sherlock's bed. Reaching out he took the paper and unfolded it, blinking stupidly at the six words written in Mycroft's black fountain pen. He had used a fountain pen himself but only once, realising that his left handed method smudged the ink over both the paper and his hand.

The words were simple enough, three names written one above the other, but who they belonged to he couldn't understand. They had meant something to Sherlock though, it had been obvious in the way he had thrown himself into his phone, not even annoyed by the fact that it had been Mycroft that had supplied him with whatever information it was that the paper had told him. Eventually John sighed and dropped the paper on to Sherlock's bedside table. He flicked off the light and left the room, stopping only once on the way to his bed to see Sherlock sitting on the sofa entirely engrossed in his laptop with a faint smile sitting on his lips.

John awoke with a start, drawing a surprised gasp through his dry lips as he noticed the person leaning over him. He bolted upright, nearly cracking heads with the figure who jumped back just in time. He stared, trying to make out who it was through the early morning gloom. Slowly the shadow morphed into that of his friend and he ran a hand through his hair in relief.

"Don't do that again" he sighed finally as his breathing slowed back to normal. Sherlock 'hmm'ed in question from across the room where he was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and his head to one side. He had removed his jacket in the time since John had left him and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to expose his pale forearms.

"The…the leaning thing; its creepy" mumbled John, stifling a yawn as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and crossed his legs under the covers. Sherlock smirked and chuckled to himself, probably pleased that his plan to wake his friend had been successful. "So, why did you wake me?" John asked, although he already knew what Sherlock would want to speak to him about.

"Oh, I need your help for my case" Sherlock answered, a strange excitement creeping into his tone as he spoke. John groaned and let himself fall back onto the bed with a thump as his suspicions were confirmed. Why could Sherlock's cases never wait until the morning? Sherlock chuckled again and even in the dim light of the room John was sure he was grinning.

"Go on then" he sighed, after a moments silence, knowing he was more likely to be able to get some sleep later if he helped with the case, Sherlock was bound to play his violin purposefully loudly if he didn't get help now. John scowled when he felt the bed jolt as Sherlock sat down and the slight thump as he leaned back against the wall.

"I found the identity of the victims when you were asleep, and all three of the murder victims work for Mycroft, and so its highly likely that the murderer does too. Mycroft thinks it's probably the same man who stole his papers considering the similarities with the CCTV in both cases. It would also work with the face that whoever stole the papers has had their infiltration set up for a while, using the upturned offices to lure me out as bait for Mycroft. That all makes sense, yes?" he didn't pause for an answer, continuing on with his hundred mile an hour rant. "But I don't understand why he has started murdering these people, he has what he wanted from Mycroft, so why draw attention to himself further?"

"Hmm, maybe they had papers too?" John mumbled sleepily, his eyes once again closed. Sherlock scoffed at this remark, proving it obviously wrong.

"Please _try_ to think, John! They were all idiots anyway, as if my brother would trust them with anything of importance!" he sighed again and leant back against the wall again, pulling his legs up onto the bed and crossing them. "But they must have had something of importance, something that the killer wanted, he wasn't killing them for fun, we already know that. They wouldn't have had their own work to steal, nothing of importance anyway and even if they did why kill them and so respectfully?" Sherlock trailed off, his forehead wrinkling as he thought.

"What if they didn't have what he wanted?" Asked John wearily, wanting Sherlock to just get off his bed so he could go back to sleep.

"No, Mycroft's papers had everything he could have wanted. Unless…" He trailed off and sighed, running his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Oh, oh that's it, John! _The_ Papers! He didn't have what he wanted!" exclaimed Sherlock suddenly, the excitement clear in his voice as he leaped from the bed, flicking the switch on the wall. John sat up, shielding his eyes with his hands against the sudden brightness in the room. The detective ran forwards, grabbing his friend by the shoulders to get his full attention. "What if you'd set up this plan to get these papers but the plan failed and someone got there first, the thief was too slow?" he probed, his voice an excited hiss.

John's brow furrowed as he let the new information fall into place in his sleep-muddled mind. "So someone else stole the papers?" He asked eventually, as he squinted at his friend through the yellow light.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed happily, letting go of John's shoulders and stepping back into the middle of the room. "But then what would you do? You would want the papers back but you don't know who has got them so what's the only option? Search every person you could possibly have them!"

"But why kill them? And so respectfully too?" John's voice was quiet, the confusion in it visibly annoying the detective and he turned away, looking like he needed to pace but unsure his leg would hold.

"Well the killing is obvious, he would have had to threaten them for the papers, black mail or something similar. They would have worked together so the victim would recognise whoever had confronted them even if they wore a mask. The respectfulness? Well whoever the murderer is doesn't enjoy the killing, it's done out of necessity. He feels sorry for killing them so obviously they didn't have what he was looking for!" Sherlock ended his speech with an excited huff as he turned back to his friend, the light glistening off his eyes.

"So-" Started John after a pause, his half-asleep mind struggling to keep up with the speed of the detective. Sherlock grinned at him, his entire form animated by the thrill of solving the case.

"Yes, John." He confirmed excitably, clasping his hands together. "Our murderer is likely to strike again."


	13. A Break In The Case

**Chapter 13**

**A Break In The Case**

John let out a sigh and flopped back onto the bed as Sherlock flew from the room. He was in Case mode now, and would either be pacing round the lounge pulling at his hair, lying on the sofa with his hands steepled under his chin in thought or researching on one of their laptops. It all depended on the type of case he had and how far along he was at solving it.

If a case went on too long Sherlock's pattern would change. The pacing would stop as the lack of food caught up and slowed his body down in an effort to keep his mind as lightning fast as normal. It was then that he would start to pile on the nicotine patches too, in yet another desperate attempt to speed his slugging brain. Eventually, however, his body would give out and he would collapse on the sofa in exhaustion. Once he had even collapsed at Saint Bart's, and he was honestly lucky that it had been Molly that found him.

But even then it had been better than the boredom, in Sherlock's mind at least. After a long case a break was a relief, a time for Sherlock's body to recover, but after that day it became a thing to dread and fear, just for John as much as for Sherlock as it was he who had to put up with the constant moans and flat-raids for cigarettes and late night violin sessions.

"John?" called Sherlock from the lounge, pulling his friend from his half-asleep state. John sighed again, his eyes still shut against the light in his room. Sherlock was on the sofa then, most likely deep in thought when he noticed that he needed something. It was probably tea. With a huff he pushed himself to his feet, wandering out of the room and down the hall towards their lounge.

Sherlock was indeed lying on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands held together in thought. He opened his eyes as John approached and held out his hand, the blackberry now balanced on his palm. John rolled his eyes but stepped forwards and took the phone in his hands, turning it over whilst he waited for Sherlock's instructions to begin.

"Call Mycroft" he started, shutting his eyes again. "And tell him to send me a floor plan of his workplace with each separate office labelled with the respective occupant"

John frowned at the phone. He had already opened a message on the tiny screen because Sherlock never phoned. Ever.

"Call?" he asked, sighing when he got no response. "Sherlock, you can't call him now. Its" – he paused here, turning round to glance at the clock behind him – "just after four in the morning. He'll be asleep" he added, sighing yet again when the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a grin.

John paused and thought for a second, eventually entering the demands into a text and firing it off to the contact labelled M Holmes. Sherlock must have noticed he had sent the text by the sudden lack of key-tapping, because it was then that he stuck out his hand again as a request for his phone. The doctor huffed as he crossed the room again and placed the phone on his friend's hand before retreating back up to his room for the second time that night, hoping he could fit in a couple hours more sleep before the morning.

John was honestly surprised when he was woken by the sun beating through the open curtains of his window the next morning. He lay in bed listening for the sounds of Sherlock downstairs but all was silent, although he couldn't decide whether to be pleased or worried by that.

Eventually he pushed himself from his bed and yauned, sighing when he realised just how tired he still was after last night's case-solving. Running a hand through his short hair he traipsed down the stairs and into the kitchen to make himself a coffee. He passed Sherlock on the way who was sitting in his chair with a laptop on his knees. John recognised it as his own, but only shook his head when he noticed Sherlock's laptop sitting beside the chair, its lid still open and a little orange light glowing on the base informing him of its lack of battery. Sherlock's laptop had quite a long battery life and considering that he rarely ever let it sit around uncharged in case he needed it in a hurry he must have been sitting there a while.

"Morning" John called over his shoulder as he filled the kettle and found himself a mug. It looked clean inside but he rinsed it anyway, a habit he had developed since he had made a coffee with a strange white froth the week before. "Black, two sugars" called Sherlock in reply, his eyes still fixed on the screen. John rolled his eyes but pulled a second mug from the cupboard all the same.

"Did Mycroft send you that stuff then?" John asked, moving to stand in the kitchen doorway as the kettle boiled behind him. Sherlock ignored him entirely, his eyes moving from left to right as he read on the screen of the laptop in front of him. "Of course he did" John muttered, going back into the kitchen to pour the coffee.

It was three hours and rather a lot of coffee later that the doorbell rand outside the flat. John had spent a majority of that time cleaning the kitchen and trying to get the frying pan back to a condition that was suitable for cooking food with. It was to do with an experiment, apparently, but he didn't know what type. He wasn't sure he wanted to know either.

As it turned out it was Mycroft at the door, a small pile of beige folders tucked under one arm. John rolled his eyes at the arrival but stepped back to let the elder Holmes brother into the flat. Sherlock eyed his brother as they came through the door but quickly returned his gaze to the screen on his lap without a sound. Mycroft appeared not to notice, merely crossing the room himself and sitting down in the other chair.

John frowned. He had never seen Sherlock regard his brother with so much dislike and even Mycroft hadn't made a comment as he had entered the room. It was such a contrast to their normal behaviour, when the detective would dramatically huff and make some snide remake about his brother's diet and Mycroft would return a remark in his usually professional manner.

All three of the murder victims' work in the same building that you do." started Sherlock without so much as a welcome, his eyes fixed on the screen of the laptop. Mycroft leant back in the chair, his umbrella rested against the arm. "But none of their offices is the closest to yours. They are getting further away though, so the killer is working away from your office through a select group of people." He paused here, his eyes moving up to his brother's before continuing. "So tell me dear brother, what have you told them?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this comment, his exterior still purposefully calm despite his brother's accusations. He brought his hands up to his chin, steepling them in a way similar to his brother before replying. "The relationship those three victims is that they have all at some point worked for the International Peace Committee, I suppose the thief knew that only they would know the importance of the document that was taken. However, that was highly secretive information and nobody aside from their employer would have access to that"

"And you, of course" added Sherlock as his eyes darted back down to the screen of his laptop, his hands moving furiously fast over the keys. John waited beside him, watching as Sherlock logged onto Mycroft's files and scrolled through the lists. It was only a minute before Sherlock had found whatever it was he was looking for and glanced down at the floor plan of Mycroft's office, his eyes drifting around until he found the name he wanted.

"Anthony Donoway, of 29 Hans Place, Knightsbridge" he said, his face alight as he shut the lid of the laptop, and stood up, placing the laptop back on the seat of the chair. Mycroft sighed as he glanced at his brother, his expression exasperated. "Sherlock-" he started only to be cut off.

"Come on John" called the detective as he buttoned his jacket, "We've got ourselves a murderer to find!"


	14. Nearing The End

Hello again!

I would just like to point out I have been a very busy bee since I last posted and have re-written all of the chapters so far, so you may like to read them again. There have been no major changes to the story, so it doesn't matter if you don't, but little things may be different, so be prepared to be marginally confused if you don't!

**Chapter 14: **

**Nearing The End**

After they left the flat John found himself caught up in the usual whirlwind associated with Sherlock's cases. Sherlock had called Lestrade as the taxi drove them to Gloucester Road, his voice both urgent and excited. Lestrade had agreed to meet them at the house, but had given Sherlock strict instructions not to enter until he had arrived. John knew Sherlock was unlikely to follow Lestrade's wishes and just hoped the DI arrived before they did. However as it turned out Lestrade wasn't at the flat when they arrived, and just as he had expected Sherlock leapt from the cab, standing in the gap of the open door as he studied the building in front of him with disgust.

"He's been already, we're too late" he stated the annoyance clear in his voice. John looked out of the window of the cab, leaning back to try and get a glimpse of the house around Sherlock.

"How do you know?" he asked, seeing nothing untoward about the appearance of the house. The lights were off and the front door shut, no signs of forced entry around the key hole. It was a nice house, built in red brick with the wooden door stained dark brown and set back from the street under an arched porch. White stone steps lead to the door, the treads sheltered from the night's rain by the arch.

"The car, John" Sherlock flapped his hand towards the ring of cars parked along the street, indicating the car that sat in the space between number 28 and 30. It was a weekday and the man would have driven to work as he usually did, judging by the state of the car and the parking ticket still sitting on the dashboard. The car itself was clean, the paintwork perfect but the tires were worn as if it were in need of a service. Sherlock would probably be able to tell the man's life story from the car but he seemed mostly uninterested in the vehicle.

"He can't have been here that long ago" The detective muttered to himself, before shutting the car door and limping towards the house, his shoes splashing in the shallow puddles. John frowned and pushed himself from the cab, barely remembering to pay the cabbie on his way. He shut the door behind him and the cab drove away, the silence coming as the taxi left. The wind blew gently, its cold breeze ruffling the plants along the fence of number 29 and the trees in the green behind him.

Sherlock was examining the steps when John caught up with him, bent down on his knees for closer inspection. He had his magnifying glass in one hand, the fingers of his other tracing along the faint muddy outline on the stone. It was a footprint, one of many on the steps, and it was still wet in some parts and just a smudge in others. There were lines on the tiles too, only just visible on the bottom steps and fading out quickly.

"Are those the murderer's?" Sherlock looked up and grinned.

"These larger ones are, see how they're still damp, the murderer came sometime this morning, couldn't have been longer than a couple of hours ago. The smaller ones, they belong to the victim, there's lots of them, probably built up over time, he's not the sort of man to clean his house after all."

John nodded. "And that is… a trolley of some kind?" he pointed to one of the four lines on the bottom step there they were boldest.

"Yes, used to transport the body from the house, avoids suspicion that way. It had metal wheels, judging by the gouges, possibly the same one used in the hotels but I can't be sure, they're all very similar." John looked down, noticing for the first time the cracks in the stone where something heavy and narrow had been pulled down the steps. A car revved up the road behind them and pulled alongside the path.

"Oi, I thought I told you two to wait until I got here" Said Lestrade as he climbed from his car, locking it with a click of the keys. John turned and noticed that the DI was smiling despite his comment. He ginned back and then looked back at Sherlock who was using the wall to pull himself back to his feet, his lips clamped together.

"We're too late, the murdered has been already, but it's too late for him to have taken him into a hotel today so we might be able to catch him at it tonight." Lestrade nodded and sighed.

"Well its better than nothing" he said, starting up the steps towards the house and knocking on the door. Then he turned back around, and glanced at Sherlock. "Is this some sort of silent protest or am I missing something here?" he asked, indicating the detective's lack of coat. John glanced over at his friend who seemed to be doing a pretty good job of not noticing he had been spoken to.

"No one will answer, the occupant lived alone and is likely to have been killed a good few hours ago" Sherlock said, ignoring the question and his tone suddenly frosty. Lestrade looked a little taken back at the change in tone and turned to knock again on the door.

"Yes, but I can't just break down his door, he's only dead according to you!"

Sherlock huffed indignantly. "You have trusted me before" he huffed, now leaning against the wall of the porch in what John suspected was a casual attempt to keep the weight off his leg. Lestrade sighed.

"Stop being childish, Sherlock. And I'm not risking my career just on one of your whims." He took one lance glance at the still locked door and then walked back down the steps to the path. "But knowing you you're probably right, so I'll get someone looking into the delivery schedule of the possible hotels and try and work out which it is."

"The Hotel will have a new receptionist too, probably with their first day being tomorrow" Added the detective, his tone still frosty. Lestrade nodded and muttered his thanks as he unlocked his car, climbing back in and starting the engine.

"I'll call later to tell you if I find anything but only as long as I don't get any calls complaining that you've been housebreaking" Lestrade warned, his gaze focused on Sherlock as he spoke. "So go home, both of you, and try not to cause any trouble on your way" He sighed as he shut the door and drove away. Sherlock stood like marble, not moving until the last of Lestrade's engine had faded down the road.

"He treats us like children" he hissed as he glanced up the stairs again towards the door.

"No, he treats you like a child, which is necessary sometimes" John added then sighed when Sherlock leant away from the wall and started up the stairs. "And this would be why! Are you that suborn or just incapable of following simple instructions?"

"The case will be solved quicker this way, there's less of a body count and that always seems to please you." Sherlock muttered, his back to the steps as he fiddled in his pockets, finally drawing out a small lock picking kit. John huffed but glanced behind him and then followed his friend up the steps to the house. He reached the top just in time to hear the faint click as the lock snapped open. Sherlock withdrew the metal pin from the lock and returned it to its pouch in his jacket pocket before twisting the handle and giving the door a cautious shove.

The door opened without a sound to reveal a darkened hall, the only light filtering through an open door at the end of the corridor. The floor of the hall was of a red tile and the walls were painted a simple white. There was a wooden staircase leading up to the floor above on one side of the hall and a small cabinet stood against the oppose wall, a pad of paper open on its surface and a black phone handset resting next to its holder. John shut the door behind him and flicked on the light against the resulting darkness.

"He was taken from here, defiantly," announced Sherlock, examining a small white box with a flipped up lid on the wall. He unclipped the lid and let it swing down to hit the wall with a click. The white box was a burglar alarm, and with the lid flipped down and the buttons visible it was obvious that the owner used it often. It hadn't been set when the owner had last left, so he had obviously not left of his own accord.

Sherlock pushed the lid back up and carried on down the corridor towards the open door. He nudged it fully open to reveal a light wooden kitchen with a black marble counter top. It was neat, almost nothing on the worktop with only a small used frying pan sitting on the hob from where the man had prepared himself a breakfast. Leading off the kitchen was a breakfast room, where a plate of half eaten bacon and eggs sat, the cutlery still balanced on the edge of the plate.

"He wasn't expecting the murderer to visit him, he wouldn't have made breakfast like that it if he was," Sherlock started as he surveyed the room. He moved back into the hall and then into the lounge, stooping to examine one of the many muddy shoe prints that littered the floor. "The murderer wasn't invited in either, it was forceful, he didn't even try to enter carefully. See the shoe prints in the living-room floor? The victim never wore shoes in the house, he wouldn't let guests wear them either, the carpets too clean for that. But the foot prints are helpful, they show the murderer was pacing, but why? He never showed any sign of nervousness with the other murders so why here? What was different?" He looked up from the floor, his eyes unfocused as he thought before he stood with an "Ohh!"

He turned back to John, his eyes flashing excitedly. "The victim normally lets the murderer in, yes?"

"Yeah, that's what you said-"

"But what if this one didn't, what if this one realised what was happening? Rumours spread John, speculations of murder, only so many people can die before others start to notice a pattern. The Murderer knows he can't play at this for much longer, not before someone gets hold of him." Sherlock was pacing now, limping still but apparently too deep in thought to notice. He brushed a hand through his hair, rubbing at the back of his skull and ruffling his curls. Then he froze for a second, his mouth partly open before he rushed out into the hall again. John followed, catching up to see his friend kneeling on the carpet, his leg bent at an awkward angle to keep his weight away. He was inspecting the floor, his had hovering over the tile so close there was barely a millimetre gap.

"Look here, John" He beckoned with his free hand, his eyes still fixed on the floor. John knelt down, the tiles cold creeping through his jeans almost instantly. He looked at the floor where Sherlock was pointing, noticing only then the faint line of rubber scratched onto the stone. It looked to be from a shoe, and going by Sherlock's deduction that the victim didn't wear shoes in the house it much have belonged to the murderer.

"He pushed his way in, not just forceful but violent, so the victim was fighting back, which means…" he broke off and looked at John expectantly.

"Err, DNA of the murderer, possibly under his finger nails, they were fighting, he might have got a scratch in." John glance up from the floor to see Sherlock smirking, his eyes alight. He continued, "And, Mycroft being the control-freak he is will have all his people on file, so all we need to do is find the body and…" he broke off and shrugged, "Voilŕ"


End file.
